Give the Kids a Show
by Orangejolius
Summary: How far would Kyle and Tweek's friends go to protect them from the hatred of a small, narrow minded town? Pretty far, apparently
1. Chapter 1

**Slow build with this one, you guys. It's completely different than anything else I've written so this should be interesting. xD (relatively speaking, of course) ENJOY! I can't take ownership for this idea, btw. Shout out to WAGL (on AO3) for the awesome suggestion! I just hope I don't fuck it up too much, lol. Just give me time.**

**"Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets." - Travis Bickle, Taxi Driver**

* * *

Small towns are funny things, aren't they? Very funny things when you stop to think about it, shining so prettily on the surface, their exteriors almost like new dimes, but when you pull back the covers, they're exceedingly ugly. To be absolutely honest, small towns are probably uglier and more hostile than big cities, because they make it seem like they have their values in line; mom's apple pie perched on the windowsill, church on Sundays, and small town folks with even smaller minds.

South Park was no exception to this rule, having a much uglier past than most small towns. It almost wouldn't be surprising if someone looked down and saw blood running through the gutters and corpses lining the alleyways, but the facade was strong in this place. No, you really had to sink into the mire when it came to South Park, really walk among the town folk and become one with them; only then would you see the truth.

Kyle was no stranger to the truth, especially after he'd decided to take the plunge and announce his homosexuality to South Park High at large. He'd figured that he'd be safe, having grown up with these people and suffered through the same trials and tribulations; the never-ending onslaught of bizarre happenstances and supernatural occurrences. He and these kids had been through a lot, probably far more than most "normal" adolescents, so he almost thought that he had a built-in buffer, an in, so to speak.

This had not been the case.

It started in small, seemingly innocuous ways; the terror, the harassment. In fact, it had started out so small that he hadn't noticed it at first. A push from behind, his books being knocked out of his hands while walking through the crowded hallway, his wallet disappearing from his locker. These were things he could deal with, for awhile, at least. But, as is the way of things, tiny occurrences soon gave way to larger ones, and pretty soon he couldn't look the other way anymore.

The thing that probably tipped him off the most about his classmates' low-key hatred for his sexuality was the note, just a simple note; waiting for him in his locker on a Friday afternoon. At first he had thought it had been from one of his friends, Stan or Kenny, maybe (possibly Cartman, though he didn't expect it), but when he'd opened it the bile immediately rose in his throat and he was looking wildly around; fear poisoning his bloodstream. He was almost sure he was being watched; nearly positive that the writer of the awful message would want to see his face when he read it for the first time:

**THE ONLY GOOD FAG IS A DEAD ONE. GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR SCHOOL.**

It was written in jagged, sloppy lettering, bright red but some of the letters had black running through them; giving them more dimension. The words almost seemed to leap off the page, and the fear was instantaneous. He couldn't even convince himself that this was a meaningless, harmless prank; there was absolutely nothing harmless about the message scrawled across the scrap of notebook paper clutched in his hands. Slamming his locker, he pulled his backpack tighter as he raced out of the hallway, a new type of fear running through him, and for the first time the school appeared decidedly sinister to him. He'd never felt exactly safe there, not with the trend of school shootings on the rise, but he'd never felt so unwelcome either; and by a nameless, faceless classmate that could be anyone. That was the worst part.

Stepping into the late afternoon sunshine, Kyle could see Tweek huddled in the shade of an elm tree in the court; the red sunlight streaking his hair and making it look like he was bleeding out. This thought only served to reinforce Kyle's growing hysteria, but he fought it back. Going to him, he knelt beside the slight boy and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" He asked, quietly; the hateful note still clutched in his hand. "Did someone push you down the stairs again?"

Sniffling, Tweek looked up, his face having been pushed into his arms; his knees tucked close to his chest. Tears sat in his eyes as he regarded Kyle for a moment, one trembling hand reaching up and brushing them away. He shrugged.

"Someone left something in my locker," he replied, his usually shrill voice subdued and soft; thick with tears and mucus.

Quick understanding lit up Kyle's mind, and he held up the offensive note.

"Look familiar?" He shook it a little.

Tweek's blue eyes widened, filling with shock. He stared between Kyle and the note, clearly trying to get a handle on the situation.

"B-but, why? Why would someone write something like that? We haven't done anything to anyone!"

"Yes, we have," Kyle said, grimly. Crumpling up the note, he sat next to Tweek; putting his bag aside. "We dared to be gay in their presence. Apparently, that makes us fucking monsters."

"I didn't even want to come out," Tweek sniffled, swiping his hand under his leaking nose. "I only did because you were...I thought that would make it okay."

Guilt washed over Kyle at his words, and for a moment he couldn't even look at him. A thread of fury laced his words when he spoke next, but that didn't downplay how defeated he sounded as well.

"We shouldn't have to hide who we are, Tweek; you know that as well as I do. There's just something wrong with this fucking excuse for a town." He sighed, opening up the note again and studying it. "Things really seemed like they'd be okay at first, you know? But then..."

"Kyle, I'm being tripped or spit on everyday. I don't know how much more I can take," Tweek confessed, beginning to shake. He hugged his knees closer to his chest.

"You've been spat on?" Kyle asked, infuriated. "By who? Why didn't you tell me?"

Tweek shrugged, looking away.

"I didn't want you to worry, and besides, it wouldn't change anything, would it?"

"Tweek, tell me who spit on you," Kyle said, placing a hand on his arm. "It might be the same person who sent us these notes. Who knows?"

"Fine, but I don't see what difference it would make," Tweek replied, burying his face in his arms again. After a moment, Kyle could hear him muttering something against the fabric of his shirt. He leaned in, trying to hear him.

"What? I didn't hear you."

Another mutter and once again, Kyle couldn't hear him. He sighed, brushing a hand through his curls. Tweek had always been so timid, so retiring; this treatment was already destroying him and they'd only come out a couple months ago.

"Speak up, Tweek. Tell us who spit on you," a nasally voice cut through the red afternoon, and Kyle looked up; momentarily afraid. He relaxed when he saw that it was Craig, with Token and Clyde flanking him.

"Hey," he said, tucking a curl behind his ear. Studying Craig's face, Kyle was momentarily uneasy, seeing the slow fury working through his eyes. "Tweek's just a little upset," he added, wincing when he heard Tweek begin to cry again, soaking his shirt.

"Clearly," Craig replied, his voice icy. Kyle didn't take it to heart, he knew how protective Craig was of his boyfriend; how protective all three of them were of Tweek. The trio came to stand beside Tweek, looking down at him.

"Tweek, tell us what happened so we can help," Craig said, his voice gentle this time; almost like he was gentling a scared deer. "We can't help if you keep this shit bottled up inside."

"Maybe I can help," Kyle volunteered, still feeling slightly out of sorts to see the look in Craig's eyes seeming to leak into the eyes of Clyde and Token. It was a remote, unfeeling presence, almost like he was looking into the faces of strangers. Holding up the note, he handed it to Craig, who looked down at it; his eyes narrowed.

"So, that's how things are going to be," he muttered, crushing the note in his hand. He snapped his focus to Kyle, taking him off guard. "Let me guess, you got one too."

Kyle just nodded, raw relief filling him up when he saw Stan, Kenny, and Cartman approaching; the red sunlight bouncing off their hair and skin as well. For a moment it felt like the entire world was going up in flames; an occurrence he wouldn't be all-together ungrateful about given the circumstances.

"What's going on?" Stan asked, catching Kyle's eye before glancing at Tweek; his eyes filling with concern. "What's wrong with him?"

"It would seem the bigots are alive and well in this shithole," Clyde answered, plucking the note from Craig's hands and passing it over. "Check out that bullshit; it was in Kyle's locker."

Stan read the note while Kenny and Cartman looked over his shoulders. Kenny pushed his hood back, sighing a little. Glancing at Kyle, he smiled sadly, apologetically.

"That really sucks. How could anyone write you something like that?" He asked.

"Beats the hell out of me," Kyle replied, standing and brushing off the seat of his pants. "We both got 'em, though. Fuck us for just trying to live our lives, am I right?"

"This stuff makes me sick," Stan said, squashing the note and stuffing it into his pocket. "And to think, these fuckers used to be our friends. Christ, we fucking grew up together; all of us."

"Tweek, give me your note as well," Craig said, kneeling next to Tweek and brushing a hand through his messy hair. "Come on, baby. We just want to help, okay?"

"What can you do?" Tweek sobbed, looking up at him finally, his blue eyes swollen and red. "What can anyone do?"

"We'll think of something, I promise," Token soothed him, watching as Craig retrieved the note from Tweek's trembling hand and studied it. It contained the same message as Kyle's, the garish, sloppy words bleeding across the page.

Craig stood and shared a look with the other boys, a look that seemed to say more than it probably should, Kyle noticed. Like Stan before him, he stuffed the note in his pocket.

"How long has this been going on?" Kenny asked, his intense blue eyes boring into Kyle's. "I mean, I know you said that you've been bullied the past couple of weeks, but when did this shit start?"

Kyle shrugged.

"Who can say? I just thought the stuff that was happening was normal crap...high school hazing or whatever. I guess I was just kidding myself."

"You've always been so naive, Jew," Cartman piped up, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I knew this shit had to do with you being gay the first time you mentioned it. You'd have to be blind not to see the real picture here."

"He's right, dude," Stan added, his words making Kyle shut his mouth when he'd begun to protest. "You always want to see the best in people, which is why we all love you so much."

"God, do you have to say stuff like that in front of everyone?" Kyle couldn't help but grin, feeling himself begin to flush.

"Oh, hush. You know it's true," Kenny chimed in, coming over to Kyle and wrapping his arms around his waist. He pulled him close and kissed his throat, making Kyle sigh. He smelled of tobacco and clean sweat, his lips warm against his skin.

"Come on, honey," Craig said, holding out a hand to Tweek. "Let's get out of here, okay? We can go back to my place; my folks are out."

"I'll give you a massage," Clyde added, taking a hold of Tweek's hand when Craig had finally coaxed him to stand. "How does that sound?"

"I'm scared," Tweek admitted, looking around the group. "I don't want someone to hurt me and Kyle. Everyone hates us."

"We have your backs, promise," Stan said, taking a hold of Kyle's hand. "No one's going to hurt you guys; not with us around."

"Oh, Stan," Kyle snorted, leaning over and kissing his cheek; Kenny's arms still wrapped around his waist. "I know you like to think you're so scary but you couldn't hurt a fly; let's be real here."

"Don't underestimate him," Cartman interjected, grabbing onto Kyle's other hand. "You never know what hippies are capable of, you know?"

"You're the only person in this group I'm even remotely afraid of," Kyle replied, rolling his eyes and accepting Cartman's kiss on his forehead. "But thanks, you guys. I'm sure we'll be okay as long as we stick together." He glanced at Tweek, trying to smile at him reassuringly. "Right, Tweek?"

Tweek just shook his head before sighing into the kiss Craig was laying on his mouth. Pulling away, the sun was still casting its bloody light over his hair, over all of them. The world was grotesque in that moment, unwelcoming.

"I'm not sure," he said, honestly. "All I know is I'm afraid. I'm afraid all the time."

* * *

Cartman's basement hadn't really changed since they were all in elementary school, something that Craig noticed every single time he found himself in its dank confines. Ghostly remnants of a childhood that had passed them by could be found on every surface: Coon and Friends merchandise, posters, action figures; hell, even old plans Cartman had written up years ago. He grinned to see it all, wondering once again why Cartman's mom didn't just make him clear all the bullshit out, but he supposed it didn't matter. Not at the moment, anyway. No, they had more pressing concerns to attend to, didn't they?

Looking around, he waited for everyone to quiet down somewhat before clearing his throat, and pretty soon all eyes were on him; blue, green, brown. The colors were different but the look in them was the same, and it filled him with a strange excitement. He licked his lips, sharing a look with Clyde before beginning to speak.

"We can't keep overlooking the issue at hand, can we?" Reaching into his pocket, he fished out the hate note and gently laid it on the table they were all sitting around. "Something has to give, don't you think?"

Slowly, Stan drew out Kyle's note and lay it on the table as well, his face blank as he considered it. Looking around, he let the silence in the room build until you could hear Mrs. Cartman clear her throat somewhere upstairs.

"Kyle likes to downplay everything because that's just in his nature, but I'm pretty sure this goes deeper than what he's letting on," he finally said, reaching out and smoothing the note out. "If we don't step in, it'll just get worse."

Leaning forward, Kenny rolled up his sleeves, his tattooed forearms resting on the table. He studied the note for a moment, a dead quality seeping through his usually animated eyes. His expression wasn't one of malice so much as it was calculated consideration.

"Let's not start something we aren't prepared to finish, you guys."

"He's right," Token spoke up, always the voice of reason. "Just because we love them doesn't mean we need to jump the gun here. We need more proof of what's actually happening to Tweek and Kyle. Don't you think?"

"The handwriting's familiar, even though they tried to disguise it," Cartman mused, pulling one of the notes closer to himself. He held it up for everyone to see. "Don't you think?"

Clyde nodded, leaning forward a little, eyes narrowed.

"I recognize it," he said, crossing his arms. "Stotch has done too many stupid posters over the years for me not to."

"Are you sure?" Stan asked, cocking an eyebrow. "You can't just say something like that if you aren't positive."

Clyde shrugged casually.

"I'd bet my life on it."

"Is that so?" Kenny asked, reaching into his pocket and drawing out a switchblade; he flipped the blade up, the sharp edge sparkling dully. Idly, he began to clean his nails with it. "Well, maybe we should have a talk with Butters. There's nothing wrong with asking him a few questions, right?"

Craig watched Kenny slice the grit from beneath his nails impassively, though his heartbeat was already on an upswing; his mouth starting to water.

"I'm pretty sure Tweek and Kyle would be appreciative of any light we could shed on the situation. After all, we're only trying to help."

"I bet he's acting on behalf of someone else," Cartman mused, watching Kenny's knife as well, amber eyes flicking hither and yon. "At the very least, we could find out who's behind all of this."

"If Butters actually did write the notes, I'm almost positive he's doing it because someone else told him to," Stan said, pulling the note closer to himself; he smashed it between his fingers.

"Then it's settled, we start with Stotch," Craig announced, a note of caustic finality in his voice. "Who'd like to do the honors?"

"Me," Kenny spoke up immediately, working the knife under yet another nail. He grinned, the action making him appear feral.

"It'd be an honor."


	2. Chapter 2

**No true trigger warnings for this chapter, other than the implication of violence & smut. Dirty, dirty smut. To stay within the story's tone, the sex scenes are going to be filthier and less abstract than I typically write so that should be a lark, huh? xD I'm reeeeeally enjoying this idea so far, you guys. This is so much fun. Anyway, ENJOY. 3 Feedback's always appreciated, too! ;D**

**To unexplain**  
**The unforgivable**  
**Drain all the blood**  
**And give the kids a show**  
**By streetlight, this dark night**  
**A séance down below**  
**There's things that I have done**  
**You never**  
**Should ever know**

**-This is How I Disappear, My Chemical Romance**

* * *

**KENNY**

Kenny had always been an easygoing guy. Very easygoing. Perhaps a little too easygoing.

This aspect of his personality had always been a thorn in his side for as long as he could remember, even though it had helped him acquire a fair amount of friends and acquaintances. He wasn't sure what he could attribute it to, not exactly anyway, but he was pretty sure it stemmed from equal parts pot and growing up poor as fuck. He'd figured life had handed him a pretty raw deal from the jump - what was the point of being uptight? Being a tight ass didn't pay the bills or make his parents less worthless. He'd learned pretty early on to just go with the flow and when things got tough, well there was always sweet Mary Jane, Mr. Jack Daniels, or Kyle Broflovski to help put him to rights.

He couldn't exactly say when the group's dynamics began to change, but he could pinpoint when he'd started to feel all aflutter around the redhead. It'd been 7th grade year, when all the other guys were sprouting up and becoming gangling and disgusting, Kyle had been like an oasis in the desert. He'd always been delicate and proper, but it was right around the time they all turned 13 or thereabouts that Kenny had noticed he wasn't just cute, no he was downright pretty. And that prettiness didn't stop at his strawberries and cream complexion, no it went all the way down to his sweet ginger soul.

Kenny could recall sitting with Stan and Cartman one day after school, just rapping and shooting the shit, playing video games as the late afternoon sunshine flooded the room, and he could suddenly notice a shift, a change in the atmosphere.

"You guys, I miss Kyle," he'd said, glancing at Stan in his peripheral. He hadn't wanted to look the kid straight in the eyes when he'd said something like that. That was pretty much begging to be ripped into.

Stan had taken him aback by just nodding his head and saying, "yeah," like it was the most natural, expected thing in the world. But the thing that had really knocked him for a loop was Cartman jumping in and agreeing.

"You've gotta be kidding me, man," Kenny had said, just staring at him. "You actually miss Kyle? What the fuck are you on?"

"Ay, he's fun to rip on, okay? So fucking sue me," Cartman had replied, turning back to Resident Evil and jabbing at the buttons on his controller unnecessarily hard.

"Dudes, I'm not talking about just missing him because I want to make fun of his scrawny ass," Kenny had groaned, laying back against Stan's bed and studying the cracks in the ceiling. "I mean, I miss him, miss him. Know what I mean?"

Stan had lapsed into a pensive silence, not paying attention to the game on the screen or the way Cartman was attempting to murder his PS4 controller. After awhile, he'd turned to Kenny and nodded his head.

"I know what you mean, man. Like, I get it."

He'd glanced at Cartman and cocked a brow.

"Dude?"

Cartman had flushed and thrown the controller aside, having gotten torn apart anyway. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end.

"Jesus, you guys. Are we all just losing our minds or what?"

"Probably," Kenny had replied, grinning. "But can we all admit that Kyle has a sweet ass?"

They'd all collectively nodded, silently agreeing that yes indeed, the redhead had a sweet, sweet ass.

"So, what are we gonna do about it?" Stan had asked, going to his dresser and pulling out a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam and some shot glasses. He'd lined them up and started to pour.

"Maybe we should just tell him, you know?" Kenny had asked, taking his glass and knocking it back; the burn crawling down his throat. "Like, I can't just keep jacking off to him at night and pretending everything's normal. It's just too fucking weird."

"This whole thing is fucking weird," Cartman had muttered, polishing off his drink as well. He'd scraped a meaty hand across his mouth.

"He's just sweet," Stan had said, smiling softly; faintly dreamy. Kenny totally wanted to make fun of him so bad in that moment but he refrained. "He's a good person. It makes me want to, I don't know, take care of him or something."

"Same," Kenny had agreed. He'd nudged Cartman with his foot. "What about you, fat ass? Can you honestly say the same, even after all the shit that's gone down between you two?"

Cartman had punched Kenny's leg, scowling

"Haven't you ever heard that there's a thin line between love and hate, you poor ass motherfucker?"

"Okay, so, now that this shit is kind of out in the open or whatever, what's our next step?" Stan had stared at them before pouring more whiskey into his glass.

"Let's just fucking tell him," Cartman had snapped, having never been one for subtly. "Let him take it from there."

Kenny nodded, the alcohol wafting nicely through his blood; making him just a little hazy.

"I think that's a good idea. And if he isn't down, well, hey, at least we tried, right?"

"Yeah, but it could destroy our friendship," Stan had frowned. He'd always been the one most likely to overthink things. Kenny groaned.

"Dude, if aliens and Satan couldn't destroy our friendship I'm pretty sure being hot for Kyle isn't going to tear us apart."

"Does that mean we're going to be like, getting in a big pile and having sex with each other?" Cartman had asked, looking concerned and vaguely interested; a weird, amber light in his eyes.

"Only time will tell, I guess," Stan had shrugged. "So, we all agree, we'll bring it up to him this weekend, okay?"

Once again, they'd nodded, as much in tune about this decision as they had been about the inquiry regarding Kyle's fine ass.

And the rest, well, that was just history, wasn't it? Kenny often wondered after the fact why he hadn't just approached Kyle on his own and told him he liked him, maybe even low-key loved him, but he attributed this decision to his easygoing nature, too. He hadn't wanted to rock the boat or ruin the friendship they all shared. Sharing Kyle, as well as each other, seemed as natural as the sun rising or the stars in the sky; it worked seamlessly into the pattern of their lives. The conversation they'd had with Kyle about how they felt had been weird and awkward and surreal, but in the end they'd discovered that Kyle had harbored his own private feelings; secret yearnings about his friends. He'd just never wanted to reveal them because it would also mean admitting that he was gay, which terrified him.

Kenny didn't really peg himself as being gay, not in the true sense of the word, and neither did Stan and Cartman for the most part. They were equal opportunity guys before the pact had been made between the four of them and set in motion, and now they were all just focused on each other; Kyle, especially. He'd always served as a mascot of sorts, their voice of reason, their moral compass, and they all just wanted to protect him. In fact, they'd do anything to protect him; without fail. Kenny knew this as an irrefutable fact, and this too circled back to his easygoing, carefree nature. Once he'd found out that Kyle and Tweek had been experiencing harassment after they'd come out of the closet, it had been game over for the sleazy fuckers that were messing with them; point blank.

You see, it's never wise to mess with an easygoing person. Once you've gotten on their bad side, have managed to push them to that point, you're asking for the worst type of trouble. After Kenny had seen that note, he'd been itching to have a talk with one Butters Stotch.

It was the next day after school, and Kenny was jonesing for a smoke and a quick fuck when he spotted Kyle talking to Butters in the hallway. Jamming his hands in his pockets, Kenny plastered a smile on his face and walked over, simultaneously sizing up Kyle and Butters, albeit for much different reasons. Kyle was looking cute as a button in skinny jeans and a thin t-shirt, the soft pink of his skin coming through the white fabric, and Kenny immediately imagined taking him into the bathroom and just rocking his world, but he refrained. He had a little business to take care of.

"Hey," he said, coming up behind Kyle and wrapping his arms around his waist. He dropped a soft kiss on the back of Kyle's neck, loving the way he shivered while watching Butters with deceptively friendly eyes. "What's up?"

Kyle fairly melted into Kenny's arms, leaning back against him and turning his head just so, his warm scent filtering under Kenny's nose and making him start to get hard. It didn't take a lot of coaxing, after all.

"Butters was just asking about Tweek," he replied, gesturing to Butters.

Kenny studied the smaller, toe-headed boy for a moment, taking in his nervous posture; small hands worrying together constantly. Could it be that he looked guilty, or was he just seeing things that weren't there? Butters was still of delicate stature, but he'd started to plump out since hitting puberty, and Kenny got the distinct impression that he was a boy that loved his candy.

"Oh?" He asked, cocking an eyebrow at Butters.

"I was just worried because he wasn't in school today," Butters said, his blue eyes darting around like frenzied bot flies. "And I know that he and Kyle are close, so I just wanted to make sure he's okay."

"I guess he is," Kyle replied, his voice dropping an octave. "I mean, he won't respond to my texts, but I want to believe he's okay, especially after -"

He slapped a hand over his mouth, his body tensing under Kenny's arms. Kenny watched Butters closely for any kind of reaction, the note from the previous day practically burning a hole in his pocket.

"What happened?" Butters asked, eyes widening with a weird hunger. Kenny couldn't tell if it was actual pity or just ravenous curiosity, but either way the expression annoyed him. He tightened his hold on Kyle, making him gasp softly.

"Ow?"

"Sorry, babe," Kenny grinned, kissing his neck again. "Spasm."

"Right," Kyle replied, cocking a brow at him. He turned back to Butters. "Someone left something in Tweek's locker and it really freaked him out. I'm pretty sure that's why he's absent today."

"Oh," Butters replied, clearly trying to appear nonchalant. "What was it?"

Kyle shook his head, brushing a curl behind his ear.

"That's kind of private, you know? That's his business to tell, not mine."

"Why don't you tell him about the surprise you found in your locker," Kenny suggested, nuzzling Kyle's neck and staring openly at Butters.

"No, I just want to forget about it," Kyle muttered, pulling away from Kenny and rooting through his open locker, grabbing out his books. "Besides, I need to get home. I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, and I want to call Tweek, too; make sure he's okay."

"Sounds good," Kenny replied,leaning against the lockers and continuing to stare at Butters, who he noticed was starting to back up; taking tiny baby steps. He smirked suddenly, and he was sure Butters flinched. "It's still cool if I drop by tonight, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Kyle said, distractedly; not noticing the way Kenny continued to stare Butters down. "That's fine. What are your plans for this afternoon anyway?"

Casually, Kenny pushed himself off of the lockers and came over to Butters, draping an arm around his bony shoulders. He smelled like burned sugar and acrid sweat; not the best combination but very telling.

"I actually need to have a little talk with my boy Butters, here. About homework." He squeezed Butters against his side, his other hand snaking into his pocket and squeezing the note. "That cool with you?" He asked, glancing down at Butters with wide eyes.

"Uh, sure. Yeah, yeah, that should be okay," Butters stammered, appearing equal parts confused and vaguely terrified. "W-which class?"

"Math."

"I didn't know you guys shared a math class," Kyle said, glancing between them. "But, anyway, I have to go. See you later on tonight, Kenny."

"Right, wouldn't miss it," Kenny grinned, waving with the hand resting on the front of Butter's doughy chest. For a moment, he allowed himself the luxury of watching Kyle walking away before looking down at the petite blonde.

"Let's take a walk, okay? It's easier for me to talk about homework when I'm surrounded by nature."

* * *

"Kenny, I'm pretty sure I don't need to tell you this, but we don't share a math class. We don't share any classes."

Butters was trailing behind Kenny as they walked through the woods next to Stark's Pond, the sun shining through the leaves as it descended toward the horizon; bloody red like the day before. Kenny was keeping it casual and whistling, his hands in his pockets like he didn't have a care in the world. He was, of course, acutely aware of Butter's footsteps behind him, but he didn't need to know that.

"I know," he replied, simply. "I still wanted to have a chat with you, though."

"A-about what?" Butters voice was faint, sounding more kitten mew than human in nature. Kenny actually found it very cute. It reminded him of Kyle when he was just about to cum, soft and sweet in his arms. He nearly sighed at the thought.

"So, you were just worried about Tweek, huh?" Kenny replied, answering a question with a question. He loved doing that, it always seemed to throw people off.

There was silence behind him, and he smirked; Butters had been thrown off alright. They were walking farther and farther into the forest now, and the trees were closing in; moist greenery emitting a spicy scent and clinging to their skins. Kenny pushed up the sleeves of his parka and unzipped it, revealing a wifebeater beneath. Jumping up on a felled log, he used it like a balance beam, his arms outstretched. He glanced at Butters, who had stopped several feet behind him.

"Cat got your tongue?"

Butters merely stared at him, and in that moment he appeared very much the way Tweek had the day before; the ruby sunlight throwing its glow over his blonde hair and making him burn. The thought made the first thread of anger appear in Kenny's belly, and he welcomed it, relished it; it made him feel alive. Typically, his feelings were rather muted, he'd noticed, unless he was drunk or fucking, so he always enjoyed responses when he was able to have them. He was very similar to Stan and Cartman in that regard, and by extension Craig, Token, and Clyde. Jumping off the log, he began strolling up to Butters.

"You know, Tweek is like a little duckling," he said, putting his hand in his pocket and squashing the note in his fist; it had begun to shake. "And Kyle, well, Kyle's kind of like a little fox. Don't you think?"

"Kenny, I honestly have no idea what you're talking about," Butters said, watching him as the sun continued to bloody his hair. He held up his hands. "I only asked Kyle about -"

"Quiet," Kenny said, a grin sliding across his face. "Just, be quiet, okay?"

Butters merely nodded, his hands still held up in a placating manner. Kenny reached out and patted his cheek softly, almost like Butters was a pet that had performed a trick. Slowly, he pulled out the crumpled note while his other hand reached into the pocket of his parka and drew out the switchblade. He held them up, shaking them slightly. He could feel himself becoming hard when he saw the way Butters eyes opened wider, and he could've orgasmed at the sound Butters made when he flipped the switchblade open. The blade caught the dying sunlight, and it was like it had already been used.

"Now, I have a couple of questions for you," Kenny said brightly, opening up the note and holding it close to Butter's face. "And you're going to give me some answers. Aren't you?"

Instead of choosing the intelligent option and answering, Butters attempted to turn and run, but Kenny had anticipated this. Deftly, he hooked his foot around Butter's feet and he fell to the ground like the bag of shit he knew him to be. He stood over him, laughing low in his throat.

"Are you trying to be funny right now? Seriously?"

"I-I don't know what you want from me," Butters whispered, turning over and looking up at Kenny; his front smeared with mud. Fucking pig. "Please, just tell me what you want from me!"

"I already told you, Stotch," Kenny cooed, turning to a tree and holding the note against it. Rearing back, he plunged the switchblade through the paper so it clung to the tree.

"I want answers."

* * *

"Baby, baby, you need to be quiet or your parents will hear," Kenny grinned, gripping Kyle's delicate hips as he rode him, twilight creeping through the windows and deluging Kyle's bedroom in shadow. The purplish light turned Kyle's skin dusky, and Kenny had to grit his teeth as he fought back the urge to cum. "I know it feels good, but keep it down, okay?"

"Mm, I can't help it," Kyle moaned, tilting his head back as drool fell from the corner of his mouth. "There's just something about you tonight, I can't help it."

"I always know how to make you feel good," Kenny breathed, snapping his hips up; driving his cock deeper into the redhead's tight body. He was practically aching he wanted to let go so badly but he didn't want it to end yet; he never wanted it to end when it came to Kyle.

"B-besides, my mom is making dinner, and my dad's in his study," Kyle gasped, wrapping his arms around Kenny's neck; tugging him close. "They won't hear us."

Grunting, Kenny unhooked Kyle's arms from around his neck and slapped his thigh softly, instructing him to turn onto his stomach. He always loved finishing this way, having found that he could go deeper in this position than any other, and he could stare at Kyle's pert backside with every delicious thrust. Holding tightly to Kyle's skin, he was distracted by the blood under his nails for a moment before he came back to himself, and his mouth was watering so violently he had to swallow quickly.

"God, yes, right there," Kyle sighed, pressing his cheek to the pillow as he pushed back against Kenny's thrusts. Clearly, he'd managed to hit the little redhead's sweet spot, which thrilled Kenny to no end. Making sure to keep the angle just so, he drove into him just a little faster, just a smidgen harder. He was rewarded with clenched ass muscles milking his cock, almost making him lose his mind.

"Jesus Christ, kiddo," he almost laughed, slapping Kyle's ass just hard enough to leave a pink hand print. "Why do you have to be so good at this?"

"I-I could be asking you the same thing," Kyle cried, balling up the blankets in his fists. "P-please just finish, Kenny...I can't take it anymore!"

"Anything you want, babe," Kenny replied, gripping Kyle's hips so hard he could feel the fragile bones shifting under his fingers, and he knew there was going to be bruises there in the morning. He wasn't worried though, Kyle had confessed in the past that he had an appetite for rough sex; it put a fire in his blood. Speeding up, he pounded his cock into Kyle's ass until they were both gasping for breath, and his hand inched around, clutching at Kyle's erection; pumping it furiously. It wasn't too long before his hand was saturated with Kyle's hot cum, and this was enough to make Kenny lose control, falling over the edge as he poured his heat into the trembling redhead.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Kyle repeated, his voice devolving into the cute kitten mew that was reminiscent of Butter's fear. This thought, coupled with Kyle's dirty mouth only made Kenny cum harder, and he pumped through it, his dick so sensitive he almost thought he'd dissolve into the sensation.

Finally, they were both still, and Kenny leaned over to brush his lips against the small of Kyle's back; resting his cheek against the flushed, trembling skin.

"W-what's gotten into you tonight, huh?" Kyle asked, glancing at him over his shoulder. "I've never seen you act so fucking out of control before."

Kenny just dropped another kiss on Kyle's fragrant flesh before pulling out, sighing as his cock was removed with a wet 'pop.' Reaching over, he grabbed a fistful of tissues from Kyle's nightstand and began to wipe himself down, handing a few to Kyle in the process. Leaning against the wall, he shrugged.

"I was just excited, I guess."

Excited didn't even begin to describe the sensation that was flooding him, and as Kyle rose from the bed and began to dress, Kenny couldn't help but watch him with famished eyes; almost ready to accost him again before a knock came at the door.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, scrambling to dress as quickly as possible. "Shit, shit, shit."

"W-who's there?" Kyle called out, pulling his shirt on quickly. In his haste, he put it on backwards. Glancing at the door, Kenny noticed Kyle's hands trembling.

"Kyle? What's going on in there? Why is this door locked?" Mrs. Broflovski's shrill voice broke through the door, the doorknob rattling as she attempted to open it. Kenny groaned, fully dressed and already irritated by Kyle's overbearing mom.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Kyle muttered, going to the door and pulling it open. His mother stood there, expression loaded with suspicion before her focus fell on Kenny, and then she just looked openly irritated. "Oh, Kenny. You're here. Again."

"Evening, Mrs. Broflovski," Kenny chirped, waving at her. "Nice seeing you again."

"I'm sure," she replied, cocking a disapproving eyebrow at him. She'd never tried to disguise the fact that she wasn't pleased about the upswing in Kenny's visits to the Broflovski residence, but she was polite enough not to put it into words. If anything, she fell back into her old standby of withering disapproval, giving Kenny cold looks and treating him with disregard whenever she was afforded the opportunity.

Not that Kenny gave a shit about her opinion. She'd also never made it a point to disguise the fact that she wasn't thrilled about her oldest son being gay, an opinion that Kyle's father seemed to share. It would seem that they were perfectly fine with homosexuals so long as they weren't related to them. Kyle had sobbed against Kenny's shoulder one afternoon after having yet another run-in with his mother, clearly heartbroken that his parents just wouldn't accept who he was. They had wanted grandchildren, they had wanted a daughter-in-law, they had wanted what they considered normalcy, and when their son came out of the closet all of their dreams had been dashed. Since then, they seemed hellbent on not masking their displeasure from Kyle, but he tried to make it up to them in other ways: being a dutiful student, being obedient, having impeccable manners. Not that any of that seemed to matter.

_I wonder how they'd feel if they knew I routinely fucked their son into his mattress on a weekly basis?_ Kenny mused, watching with growing irritation as Mrs. Broflovski wagged her finger in Kyle's face.

"I told you we don't lock our doors in this house, young man," she chastised Kyle, red-faced and portly. Suddenly, Kenny could see those same plump cheeks covered over with streaks of red, nice, neat lines all in a row. His cock throbbed softly and he smiled.

"A family isn't supposed to keep secrets from one another!"

"Mom, I'm not keeping any secrets," Kyle lied, putting his hands behind his back, capitulating to his mother's unyielding wrath. "I promise."

"Right, like that holds any water these days," she snapped, glancing at Kenny and scowling. He just smiled back like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, radiating a subliminal desire to provoke the old shrew. "Kenny, don't you need to get home? I'm sure your parents are wondering where you are."

"No, they aren't," Kenny replied, honestly. His parents were most likely cooking meth in the back room. He was just glad that Karen wasn't home most of the time these days, usually finding a friend to crash with.

"I told Kenny he could stay for dinner, mom," Kyle said, his voice taking on a desperate quality. He was clearly humiliated and trying to hide it. "Please?"

Mrs. Broflovski just stared at Kenny, appraising and sizing him up the way she would an insect before smashing it under her shoe. Finally, she shook her head.

"I don't think that's a good idea, not after the phone call I received."

"What are you talking about?" Kyle asked, glancing back at Kenny with a worried, wide-eyed expression. Kenny just shrugged, waiting.

"Mrs. Stotch just called," she said, an edge appearing in her voice that wasn't just irritation. No, now she sounded concerned. "She wanted to know if her son was over here. Apparently, he never came home after school." She looked at her son, eyes narrowing. "Did you see him, Kyle?"

Kyle shrugged, and Kenny could tell he was concerned; his shoulders hunching up tightly. He watched with interest.

"I mean, I saw him right before I left to come home," he replied, looking at Kenny again. "Kenny, didn't you say you had to talk to him about homework or something?"

"Sure," Kenny replied, easily. "But I didn't talk to him for very long." He turned his head and looked Mrs. Broflovski right in the eyes, smiling innocently; hands clenching into fists so his nails were hidden.

"I'm as confused as you are."


	3. Chapter 3

**No trigger warnings, you guys. Sorry if this chapter isn't quite as depraved...I had to throw some character development out there, lol. Hope you guys like it anyway, bc that would be killer. :D Full disclosure time - the talk of lithium and residential treatment, etc., well those are subjects near and dear to my heart. Some of those conversations actually occurred, so, there's that. Also, Craig is becoming far and away my favorite character. xD I can't get enough of that crazy kid. Anyway, ENJOY! 3 **

**PS: i think you guys can already tell i'm diverging drastically from the south park canon...let's all just pretend like the TweekxCraig episode doesn't exist, okay? just work with me here, lol.**

**If I could be with you tonight**  
**I would sing you to sleep**  
**Never let them take the light behind your eyes**  
**One day I'll lose this fight**  
**As we fade in the dark**  
**Just remember you will always burn as bright**

**\- The Light Behind Your Eyes, My Chemical Romance**

* * *

**CRAIG**

Craig Tucker was untouchable.

At least, he had always thought of himself in that way: insulated, encased, positively aloof. In the past, he'd never allowed himself to be drawn in or bogged down by the drama or inconsequential problems of his peers - most of the time. He had a general, all-encompassing contempt for most of society. He'd often been accused of being a burgeoning, raging misanthrope.

He tended to agree.

That is, until Tweek came along. Sweet little fluffy-haired Tweek Tweak, small and vulnerable; pure. He'd heard McCormick refer to the waif as a duckling before, which was decidedly bizarre, but he could see his reasoning (for the most part; you never fucking knew with Kenny. You could thank Mary Jane for that).

When they were little kids, Craig hadn't been able to see Tweek's true appeal (he couldn't see anyone's appeal, really), but Tweek had proven to be an anomaly. Their beginning had almost a Disney movie quality, a day Craig could recall down to the last detail right after their 6th grade year; a hazy, strange afternoon in summer. Clyde and Token (the only kids Craig could tolerate. In fact, if his feet had been held to the fire he would've admitted that he actually _liked_ them) had been unavailable to hang out, and Craig had been on his own. Not that he minded, of course. He was the unusual type of kid that thrived on solitude; he did not need to be entertained by an outside force. He could always find something to do.

He'd been wandering through the woods next to Stark's Pond, not sure if he should dig up some worms and head on down to the ol' fishin' hole, or whether he should just say fuck it and go for a dip. He was dressed in his summertime attire, swim trunks and a tank top, and the humid winds were passing through the trees and brushing his skin. Sweat stood out in fat droplets along his forehead and the back of his neck, and he welcomed the sluggish breeze though it brought minimal relief. He was sucking on an orange popsicle and minding his business, when all of a sudden something fell on his head, startling him.

"Motherfucker," he muttered, staring down at the object; a black flip flop. Annoyed at being thrown off-kilter, he looked up to see where the hell it could've come from. He lifted an eyebrow to see Tweek sitting up in a tree, feet dangling; one of which was bare. He just stared at him for a moment, surprised but not showing it, of course.

"What the hell are you doing up there?"

Tweek peered down at him, big eyes wide and darting about, blonde hair standing up in tufts like yellow cotton candy. He was dressed in a pink shirt that said "It's okay to be me!" in glittery, blue letters and terry cloth shorts that rode up his coltish legs. Craig studied him for a moment, idly thinking that his little sister was wearing a very similar outfit that particular day; a thought that made him take pause for a moment before brushing it off. Tweek had always been slightly off, not that he paid him much mind as a general rule.

"I'm hiding, ah!" Tweek twitched, clinging to the branch he was sitting on. "Sorry about my shoe. Can you throw it back up here?"

Craig could only stare at him, Tweek's response creating more questions than answers. Namely, why the fuck was he hiding up in a tree like an oversized, demented squirrel? Glancing down at the wayward flip flop, he didn't move to pick it up; choosing instead to suck on his popsicle and darting his focus back to the scrawny kid in question.

"Who are you hiding from?"

Now Tweek looked terrified, a tremor passing through him. Craig raised his other eyebrow, vague interest registering in his mind; tenuous, but still present.

"You mean you didn't see them? So, it's okay for me to finally come down?" He looked around frantically.

"I haven't seen anyone, not that I have any idea what you're talking about. Who's 'them'?"

"The eighth graders," Tweek replied, his voice beginning to shake. "They started making fun of me because of my shirt, so I ran away and hid up here."

Now Craig was really at a loss for words. He glanced around, but the woods were serene and quiet; the only noise the wind passing through the trees. He shrugged.

"Dude, I haven't seen anyone." He studied Tweek's shirt. "Why are you wearing a girl's shirt, anyway?"

Tweek looked down at it as well, almost like he'd forgotten what the shirt looked like. Craig rolled his eyes and took a chomp out of his popsicle, waiting.

"I thought it was cute," he said, his voice slightly muffled from the way his chin was nestled against his chest. He looked back up at Craig and shrugged, but it came across as apologetic. "I bought it with my birthday money. I didn't know it was a girl's shirt."

Craig stared at the shirt. It was so pink and bright you could probably see it from space. He shook his head, disbelieving.

"Did you buy it in the girl's department?"

"I guess."

"So, it's a girl's shirt. Duh," Craig sighed, finishing off the last of his popsicle and licking the juice from the stick. He stuck it in the corner of his mouth, his teeth digging into the soft wood. "Not that it should matter either way. They shouldn't have gotten on your ass because of your shirt. That's just fucking stupid."

"That's what I was saying!" Tweek agreed, leaning forward so his hands were resting on the branch in front of him.

"Well, I haven't seen anyone so I guess you're safe to come down," Craig replied, talking around the stick dangling from his mouth. He leaned down and picked up the flip flop, holding it up. He stopped, considering the height of the tree. "Are you gonna be okay getting down from there? How did you climb so high in the first place?"

"I was scared, I guess I wasn't really thinking straight," Tweek said, leaning over and staring at the ground. He gulped and began to turn, the tree branch shivering and shaking beneath him. After some careful maneuvering, he was hugging the tree trunk for dear life while his foot groped for a secure place to rest; his toes scraping the bark.

"Dude, are you sure about this?" Craig asked, watching with vague interest. He was surprised to feel faint stirrings of concern, be he ignored them. Tweek shouldn't have been dumb and climbed the tree in the first place.

"I-I'll be f-fine," Tweek muttered, finding a foothold and sliding his opposite leg over the branch, finally beginning his awkward descent. "See?" He asked, clinging to the trunk like a baby koala, slowly lowering himself down. "There's nothing to -"

That's when his foot missed the mark and he frantically groped to find solid footing. Craig watched with slightly wider eyes as Tweek completely lost his hold and went careening to the forest floor, one leg scraping against the bark as he fell; he yelped like a whipped dog. In less than ten seconds, Tweek was a jumbled heap on the grass, his leg bleeding something fierce from an open gash on his knee. Craig stared down at him, still languidly chewing on the popsicle stick and holding his shoe.

"Dude, you okay?"

Tweek was clearly fighting back tears as he righted himself, his eyes straying over his wound before looking up at Craig pitifully; he just shrugged.

"I don't know," he said, sounding lost. His frail tone of voice strengthened the vague feeling of concern in Craig's belly and he sighed. It was completely contrary to his character to extend himself the way he was about to, but there was just something so vulnerable about Tweek; it disarmed him. He almost got the impression that if he didn't step in the kid would just lay down and die in the middle of the forest.

"Here," he said, coming over and jamming Tweek's flip flop on his skinny foot. "I'll help you get home, okay?"

"That's okay." Tweek groaned softly as he used the tree for support, managing to pull himself onto his feet. His shorts were ridiculously short, making his legs look especially long and slender. They reminded Craig of drinking straws. "I don't want to go home, at least not yet. I'll just go down to the pond and clean off."

"That's a great way to get an infection and die," Craig said, bluntly. "That water's filthy."

"I'm not going home," Tweek snapped, a sudden edge developing in his voice.

Craig blinked, surprised at his finality. He shrugged.

"Fine, whatever." He thought a moment, a sudden idea coming to mind. It was bizarre and unlike him, but Tweek was proving to at least be mildly entertaining on a slow summer afternoon. "Why don't you come over to my house? We have peroxide and shit." He pulled the stick from his mouth and wiggled it slightly. "And more popsicles, too. My folks always used to give me and my stupid sister popsicles whenever we got hurt."

"Do you have banana flavor?" Tweek asked, his voice smoothing back out into its usual cautious tone. "It's my favorite."

"Sure, I think so." Craig wanted to laugh at such a stupid question. What did it even matter? But, still, it was cute. He was starting to see that that was Tweek's shtick. "So, what do you want to do? I can go either way, honestly. I was gonna go fishing before you almost knocked me out with your shoe."

"Sorry," Tweek said, worrying the hem of his shirt. He bit his lip, clearly ruminating. "Sure, yeah. I'll come over to your house, if you're sure it's okay."

"Why wouldn't it be okay?"

"Dunno, parents don't always wanna deal with other people's kids," Tweek replied, shrugging delicately; bony little shoulders pressing against the fabric of his ridiculous t-shirt.

"My folks are at work, man," Craig said. "It's just my little sister at home. Besides, my parents wouldn't care. Come on."

Tweek took a step and winced, limping on his injured leg; the wound still dripping blood. It had started to coagulate, little cracks appearing in the red when his skin shifted. Craig ran a hand through his hair in frustration, already realizing that it was going to take forever and a day if he let Tweek try to walk.

"Fuck this," he muttered, coming over and turning his back to Tweek. "Hop on, I'll carry you."

"Are you sure? I don't think -"

"Just shut your yap and climb on, or I'm leaving you here."

Craig waited, fully prepared to leave Tweek to his own devices before he felt hands holding onto his shoulders softly, and then slight weight settling against his back; warm breath flush against his neck. He adjusted the boy slightly, bobbing him up and down a couple times to get used to the sensation.

"You weigh like 30 pounds, dude. This'll be easy." He began to walk, his hands tucked under Tweek's scrawny thighs. "See? No big deal."

"I weigh more than that," Tweek pouted. After a moment, he wrapped his arms around Craig's neck; hugging softly but not enough to feel constrictive. "Thanks," he added, softly.

Craig snorted.

"Don't start getting mushy on me, man. I'll drop your ass so fast your head'll spin."

* * *

"Damn, you really fucked up your knee, dude. Does it hurt really bad?"

Tweek studied his knee, hunched over while sitting on the toilet in the Tucker's shaded bathroom. Craig knelt before him, dabbing at Tweek's wound with a cotton ball saturated with peroxide; it bubbled whitely.

"It stings," he said, simply. Pulling his focus away, he studied the bathroom. "I like your bathroom."

Craig glanced around as well, his eyes falling on the seashell wallpaper and the plastic lighthouse sitting on the counter. His mom had a thing for nautical themes, not that he cared either way. It was just a bathroom, after all.

"My mom likes the ocean. There, I think this is just about clean. Let me grab a band aid." Rooting through the first aid kit, he pulled out two boxes; one with a My Little Pony on the cover, the other Star Wars. "Which one do you want?"

"I like the ocean, too," Tweek said, glancing between his options. Finally, he pointed at the My Little Pony. "That one."

Craig decided not to comment. Honestly, he'd expected this outcome. Pulling out a band aid, he delicately peeled off the backing and pressed it over Tweek's wound, a blue pony with rainbow hair staring back at him.

"Ooh, Rainbow Dash!" Tweek squealed, admiring his knee. "She's my favorite!"

"Of course she is." Craig sighed softly as he put the first aid kit away. Closing the cabinet under the sink, he glanced back at Tweek and lifted an eyebrow. "Ready for a popsicle? Banana, right?"

Tweek nodded excitedly, clearly in better spirits after being doctored. He gave the band aid one little pat before standing, pulling his shorts down a little. Craig noticed they were still way too short but he dismissed it, turning on his heel and leading Tweek out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. Opening the freezer, he pulled out a bright yellow box.

"Craig, I want a popsicle, too!" A little girl with tawny hair traipsed into the kitchen, clad in an airy tank top and shorty shorts. She glanced at Tweek, her focus zeroing in on his shirt. "I like your shirt. Did you get that at Limited Too?"

Tweek blushed furiously, not meeting Craig's eyes when he handed him a pale yellow popsicle; the kind with double sticks. He nodded, swiping at the ice with his tongue.

"Fuck off, Tricia," Craig said, slapping a popsicle in her hand as well. He hadn't bothered to tear the paper off. "Go to your room or something and don't bother us."

"I'm gonna tell mama you said a swear," she snapped back, putting her hands on her hips. "And I'm not going to my room. I'm gonna watch The Last Unicorn in the living room, so there."

Craig groaned and slammed the freezer door with unnecessary force. Turning, he took a big bite out of his red popsicle, cringing when the cold hit his nerves.

"Jesus Christ, not that stupid movie again. Are you going to watch that every single day this summer?"

"Maybe," she said, lifting her nose in the air. "And it isn't stupid. It's my favorite movie ever!"

"Yeah, for now, until you watch it so many times you get sick of it," Craig replied, leaning against the counter. "Fine, whatever. If that's what you're gonna do, go do it and leave us alone."

Scowling, Tricia ripped the paper off her own popsicle, revealing purple ice. Pointedly ignoring her brother, she looked at Tweek expectantly.

"Do you want to watch The Last Unicorn with me? It's really good."

Tweek considered this, licking delicately at his popsicle like a little cat. His blue eyes were bright like dimes when he shrugged.

"Okay, I can give it a try." His eyes flicked to Craig, widening. "Unless you wanted to do something else?"

Craig sighed and raked a hand through his hair, not really in the mood to argue over something so pointless. It's not like he had anything else planned to do with Tweek. If anything, now that he was in his home, he wasn't really sure what to do with the kid. Might as well watch a movie and wait for the afternoon to wind down.

"Whatever," he said, heading for the living room. "We'll watch the stupid movie for like the hundredth time; sounds amazing."

* * *

"See? The unicorn is trying to find her friends," Tricia explained, staring with rapture at the TV as the unicorn stood beneath the moon. "She's all alone, so she has to fight the Red Bull, but you don't see that part until later."

"Right," Tweek replied, staring at the screen as well; his popsicle half-finished. Shifting his position on the floor, he stuck his legs out in front of himself, leaning back on one hand. "The unicorn's really pretty."

"Isn't she?" Tricia gushed, glancing down at Tweek's knee. "Oh, my God! Rainbow Dash is my favorite! You like My Little Ponies, too?"

Craig was sitting on the sofa behind the pair, his face leaned on his hand as he watched the unicorn search for her lost friends with vague interest. He didn't exactly hate the movie, and it actually had a couple exciting parts, but he was tired of seeing it constantly. When his sister got stuck on something, she focused on it relentlessly, which meant everyone in the household had to put up with it, too. He grinned when he heard Tricia ask Tweek about My Little Ponies, noticing that the blonde's neck colored noticeably; a light carnation pink.

"Yeah, they're fun," he murmured, bending his leg so the band aid didn't show quite as well. "She's my favorite, too."

"Dude, are you a brony or something?" Craig asked, unable to hold himself back anymore. Tweek just seemed to be full of amusing surprises.

Tweek glanced over his shoulder at him, eyes narrowed.

"No, I'm not a brony," he said, that edge appearing in his tone again. "I just like the show, okay? The characters are interesting and the story lines -"

"You don't have to sell the show to me, dude," Craig laughed, amused at Tweek's defensiveness. "It was just a question."

"Don't listen to my brother," Tricia soothed Tweek, who turned back to the screen. "Mama said he's going through a phase. That's why they make him go to the doctor every week."

"The doctor?" Tweek asked, looking at Craig again. He looked openly concerned, almost scared, which threw Craig for a loop, even as he waded through dull fury at his little sister's big fucking mouth.

"Yeah, he has to talk to this lady and -"

"Shut up," Craig snapped, sitting up. "Or I'll lock you in the closet for the rest of the afternoon."

Tricia blanched, moving a little closer to Tweek; like he even had a prayer of protecting her.

"Not the closet, Craig. You promised."

"Promises were made to be broken," he seethed. "Especially if you can't keep your mouth shut."

"It's okay, really, it is," Tweek interjected, getting onto his knees and facing Craig. "I wont tell anyone anything, okay?"

"It doesn't matter," Craig said, standing. "I still don't want people to know my business, and Tricia knows that. Come on," he added, throwing a severe look his sister's way. "Let's go to my room, Tweek. I'm done with this unicorn bullshit."

"Sure," Tweek said, standing and wincing a little once he put weight on his injured leg. He looked at Craig's sister, his expression apologetic. "We can finish the movie some other time, okay?"

"Okay," she replied, still staring at her big brother with scared eyes. "Craig, I didn't mean to -"

"I don't want to hear it. Let's go, Tweek."

"Don't be mad at your sister, okay? I already said I won't tell anyone anything she said."

* * *

They were standing in Craig's darkened bedroom, the window covered with a blanket and shutting out the unrelenting summer sunshine. He was looking around with obvious interest, taking in Craig's band posters littering the walls. The room had almost a sterile quality, empty save for a bed, a nightstand, a desk, and a dresser; the floor bare.

"My sister just knows how to piss me off," Craig muttered, going to sit on the bed. He watched Tweek as he milled about, his footsteps light; nearly weightless. "I mean, it's not a big deal, but that's my business to tell, you know?"

"Where are all of your toys?" Tweek asked, ignoring Craig's question. "Your room is so empty."

"Toys? Seriously? What are we, six?" Craig looked around, trying to observe his surroundings from an outsider's perspective. Everything looked fine to him, tidy; simple. He liked simplicity, it was easy. "I have a PS4 if you want to play that, but I don't really play with toys anymore."

"Hmm," Tweek said, going over to the desk and studying the cage sitting there. Leaning over, he peered into it before turning back to Craig, smiling. "Can I hold him?"

"Stripe #4?" Craig asked, rising and going to stand beside Tweek. Stripe was sleeping in a bed of aspen shavings, quick, little breaths making her sleek sides rise and fall. "Maybe when she wakes up, but not right now. I don't like startling her."

"I wish I could have a pet," Tweek said, sounding sad. "My parents don't think I can handle the responsibility."

Craig considered this, covertly studying the boy, pink shirt, short shorts, and all. He could kind of see where Tweek's parents were coming from. After all, he'd found the kid hiding in a tree, but still, he couldn't help feeling slightly sorry for him; an occurrence which left him irritated.

"I never realized how childish you are," he commented, going back to the bed and plopping down. "I mean, I know we've never been friends or whatever, but you're way different from what I thought."

Tweek shrugged, continuing to study the sleeping guinea pig. He looked so frail in that moment, soft, almost like a stiff wind could blow him away.

"My parents have talked about sending me to a doctor, too," he murmured, drifting a finger over the cage before turning away to face Craig directly. "My mom said she thinks I'm regressing, not that I'm sure what that means."

"Parents are full of shit," Craig said, turning this information over in his mind. Tricia hadn't been lying when she'd said he had to visit a doctor once a week. What she hadn't specified because she was a stupid kid was the fact that Craig was visiting a psychiatrist. There'd been talk of black and white thinking and understanding the difference between right and wrong thrown around, but Craig just ignored it all, pegging it as grown up bullshit.

"Yeah, my dad also hates..." he trailed off, glancing down at his shirt. "Never mind."

"Which eighth graders were fucking with you today?" Craig suddenly asked, popping his neck. He wasn't sure why he was asking, chalking it up to casual curiosity, but there was a weird sensation growing in his belly.

"Oh, Tim Foley and Chris Johnson," Tweek said, idly. He dropped to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest, poking at his band aid. "They saw me coming out of the candy store and started hating on my shirt. Oh!" He added, digging into his pocket. He pulled out a handful of root beer barrels. "You want one?"

"Nah, that's okay," Craig replied, rolling his eyes at the old-fashioned candy. "They didn't, like, hit you or anything, did they?"

Tweek shook his head, resting his cheek on his knee.

"No, I got away from them before they could do anything like that. I may not look like it, but I can run really fast." He was silent for a moment, his eyes becoming muted. "They called me a fag and a fairy. Just like -"

He pressed a hand over his mouth, shaking his head again; eyes closed.

"Anyway, I just won't wear this shirt in public again."

For whatever reason, the quiet resignation in Tweek's voice made the weird feeling in his belly erupt into something almost caustic, making him clench his hands into fists. He stared at the boy, taking in his fragility and thinking of him almost in the same vein as Stripe resting in her cage; small, pathetic; needing to be protected.

"You shouldn't have to change the way you dress because of assholes like that, dude."

"It's not a big deal," Tweek said, softly. "I can live with it, you know? It's easier than fighting."

* * *

Craig often thought about that strange summer day, the memories coming to him when he least expected them, especially when he was sitting in Tweek's bedroom and watching him move about. That's what he was doing now, his eyes following the blonde as he rooted through his dresser and closet, dressed only in a pair of lacy panties and a frail camisole; hair mussed from sleeping most of the day away. Craig watched him with tenderness, the only softness he could seem to muster always, always directed at Tweek.

As soon as he'd seen that Tweek was absent, Craig had cut school and headed directly to the Tweak residence. He wasn't worried about running into his boyfriend's insufferable parents, knowing they'd be occupied at Tweak Brothers for the majority of the day. Besides, he was worried about Tweek, especially after he'd received that disgusting note.

It had taken awhile for Tweek to finally open the front door and when he had he'd still been dressed in his pajamas; a socially acceptable pair of plaid sleep pants and a huge t-shirt. No one needed to know what he was wearing beneath, the aforementioned delicate panties and camisole. He'd stripped down to his skivvies as soon as he and Craig had made it to his bedroom, and then he'd fallen into Craig's arms and started to cry.

"I can't face that place today, Craig; I just can't. Let's just stay in bed all day, okay? We can cuddle and watch Pixar movies. What do you think?"

Craig had immediately complied, pulling off his hoodie and jeans and crawling into Tweek's soft bed to lie beside him, cradling the smaller boy in his arms as he sobbed. They'd watched Wall-E and and Finding Nemo, even though Craig couldn't stand that stupid movie. He found it emotionally manipulative, and he didn't give two shits about the trials and tribulations of clown fish. He'd tolerated it, though, for Tweek's sake; anything for him.

Now Tweek was working off his nervous energy by going through his clothes and trying on different things, creating various piles that seemed to have vague purposes, though Craig couldn't tell what they were. He merely observed his boyfriend moving about, loving him and hurting for him in equal amounts, that ever present blank rage resting in the back of his brain. He kept looking at his phone, waiting for Kenny to contact him with regards to the Butters Debacle.

_I wonder if he'll kill him,_ he mused, resting his cheek in his hand and studying Tweek's small backside; pale ass cheeks showing through showy, mint green lace. _He's always had a boner for blood._

This thought made him skip to yet another memory, and he could vividly remember the way it had felt to hold Tim Foley's head under the filthy waters of Stark's Pond. Craig had been interested to see just how long you could deprive a person of oxygen before they were snuffed out like a candle, but he hadn't taken it that far that day. Still, Tim and later, Chris Johnson, had both gotten the message, hadn't they? They'd never so much as looked at Tweek after that.

"What do you think of this?" Tweek asked, holding up a short yellow sundress. Craig could see him wearing it on a sun-splashed boardwalk, the ocean crashing in the distance as they strolled hand in hand. He smiled, reaching out to touch the soft fabric.

"It's pretty. Are you going to try it on for me, babe?"

"Sure," Tweek replied, cheerfully. He was always in better spirits when he got to play dress up for his boyfriend. It was the only time he really got to be free, not worried about ridicule and backlash. Craig knew that Clyde and Token, as well as the rest of their group would never judge Tweek for his preferences, but everyone knew that Craig had the softest spot for the little toe-head; he'd defend him with his life. He just wanted him to be happy.

Quickly, Tweek shed the camisole and slid the dress over his head, pulling it down. Plucking at the skirt, he held it out and curtsied demurely. He smiled up at Craig cheekily, his blue eyes regarding him under feather-fine lashes.

"What do you think?"

"I think you're too cute for words," Craig said, settling his hands on Tweek's hips and pulling him close. He gazed up at him, his hand drifting under the skirt and coming to settle on his upper thigh; he squeezed gently, the action eliciting a small shiver from Tweek. "And sexy, of course."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Craig said, sliding his hand upward where it came to rest on Tweek's backside. He'd never minded Tweek's predilection for women's clothing. Sure, it had taken some getting used to in the first place. After all, as a kid he'd never come face to face with someone who liked to crossdress, unless you counted Butter's stint as Margorine, but this was another matter entirely. Tweek seemed so at peace when he was wearing feminine garments, almost like a puzzle piece in his heart clicked into place, and he wasn't about to take that from him. He'd once asked Tweek if he wanted to be a girl, but he'd merely scoffed at that and rolled his eyes.

"No, Craig. I don't want to be a girl. I just like their clothes...I like soft, cute things. They make me feel safe." He'd sighed, hugging himself. "I just want to be safe."

It would seem that Tweek had managed to find Craig's one vulnerability one sweet summer day years before, and now he was like a seed in his heart that blossomed more as time passed. Tweek wanted to be safe, to be happy and content, and Craig was going to do everything in his power to make that happen; regardless of the consequences.

"Baby," he murmured, pulling Tweek onto his lap and resting his face in the curve of his neck. He took his hand, holding it loosely. "I keep wondering about something."

"Mm, what?" Tweek sighed, cuddling up against Craig like a cat on a warm windowsill. Craig rested a gentle hand on his slight chest, feeling for his soft heartbeat; almost like a tiny clock under his fingers.

"You still haven't told me who spit on you. I can't just let something like that slide. You know that."

Tweek pulled away, his expression morphing from contentment to worry with staggering quickness. His eyes darted away, unable to settle.

"Just let it go, okay? It's water under the bridge."

Craig reached up and gently took a hold of Tweek's chin, turning his head toward him; their gazed locked.

"Tell me."

Tweek's lip trembled before he hung his head, acquiescing. He'd never been one to fight, to create discord. If anything, he just wanted to get along with everyone, but the dirty, disgusting world just didn't want to play the game.

"Henrietta," he finally murmured, sounding ashamed, though Craig couldn't tell if it was because he was confessing, or because he was selling someone else out. "Henrietta Biggle."

Craig frowned, his rage building just at the sound of a name.

"Biggle? You mean that fat goth bitch? That skank spit on you?"

"Craig! You shouldn't talk like that about other people!" Tweek replied, horrified. "It isn't right!"

"No, what isn't right is the fact that that stupid bitch spit on you, Tweek. That has to be one of the most degrading, disgusting things you can do to another person."

"But, still -"

It was then that Tweek's bedroom door burst open, and his father came striding in, his expression one of irritation. He stared at his son nestled on Craig's lap and scowled.

"Tweek, for Christ's sake, what the hell are you wearing now? I told you to be ready by 5 for your doctor's appointment. What are you even doing right now?"

Already beginning to tremble, Tweek scrambled up from Craig's lap and looked at his father with beseeching eyes, his hands pulling at his dress nervously.

"I-I'm sorry, I just -"

"I don't want to hear it," Mr. Tweak barked, glaring daggers at Craig. Craig met his gaze directly, neither perturbed or afraid. If anything, he was annoyed at the sudden interruption, and even more annoyed by the way Mr. Tweak talked to his son; like he was a dog, like he was filth. It made him sick.

"Just put some real clothes on and get moving. You did take your lithium today, right? So help me, if you didn't -"

"I did, I did," Tweek said, trying to placate him. "I took all of my medication this morning, okay? Just stop."

"It's sad that I still have to keep reminding you," his father said. "You need to have your blood drawn tomorrow. They have to check your levels, or did you forget about that, too?"

"I hate getting blood drawn," Tweek whimpered, going to his dresser and pulling out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. They hung like dead snakes in his hands.

"That doesn't matter. Now hurry up or we're going to be late. And you," he snapped his focus to Craig, narrowing his eyes. "Don't you need to get home? You do have a home, right?"

"Dad! Stop!" Tweek shrieked, clearly horrified at how rude his father was being.

Craig stood and adjusted his hoodie, righting it. He was momentarily disappointed that Mr. Tweak hadn't caught them in flagrante delicto, having fucked Tweek for the better part of the afternoon; his loud cries drowning out Nemo's pointless adventure. He grinned at the thought, feeling his phone vibrating in his pocket. Ignoring Mr. Tweak, he pulled it out, a text from Kenny flashing across the screen:

_Call me._

"You know, you're getting closer and closer to residential treatment everyday," Mr. Tweak said, turning on his son again. "You know you're on the waiting list; they just need a bed to open up. You better fucking straighten up, and knock it off with this crossdressing crap."

Reaching into his other pocket, Craig's hand tightened around the knife waiting there, nestled right next to his pack of cigarettes. Kenny wasn't the only one who was fond of knives. It took everything in him not to pull it out and start painting the walls red, but he refrained. There was time enough for that; so much time.

Tweek was crying now as he pulled on his jeans, hiding his face from Craig and his father beneath his hair. Craig just stared at Mr. Tweak with a blank expression, not letting on that he was vividly imagining splaying his rib cage open like a butterfly's wings, waiting for the old fucker's next move. What was crazy was that he used to think that Tweek's parents were cool, almost nice, but as the old saying goes, when the mask falls off it really makes a thud. It soon came to light that they hated having a gay son, but to have a crossdressing gay son? Well, that was just too much for their small town, close minded sensibilities.

"I'll be waiting in the car," Mr. Tweak muttered, throwing one last withering glance at his son, his eyes darting to Craig for a fraction of a second before dismissing him outright. "Get a move on."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Tweek cried as soon as his father left, going to Craig and laying his head against Craig's chest. "I shouldn't have forgotten about my appointment. I was just having such a nice time with you...I hope you aren't mad."

"I could never be mad at you," Craig murmured, brushing a hand through Tweek's hair. "You know that."

"But my dad said such awful things," Tweek replied, his voice wet and fretful. "He had no right."

"No, he doesn't have the right," Craig agreed, pulling him closer. "But he'll get his someday, I can pretty much guarantee that."

* * *

"Where is he?"

Craig was slowly walking home while talking to Kenny and smoking a cigarette, the evening descending into that dusky realm right before sunset; the sky purple and red, streaks of yellow breaking through the haze from the sun falling. Smatterings of stars were falling into their rightful places, tiny silent opals. He could feel his heartbeat increasing with every word Kenny spoke into his ear, and his friend's excitement very quickly became his excitement.

"Really?" He asked, taking another drag on his cigarette. "You just left him there?"

He listened, his fingers clenching around his cigarette and his phone respectively. His mind was going to dark, out of the way places, back to the summer day where he held a kid's face underwater, to the time he'd pushed someone down the stairs at school for teasing Tweek until he cried. However, what Kenny was describing was taking things to a completely different level; a level that brought a brand new kind of anticipation.

Craig could also hear his therapist's voice in his mind, trying to explain to him the fundamental truths regarding the human conscience.

"Craig, what you don't seem to understand is that you don't do certain things because they're wrong, not just because you don't want to get caught or in trouble. Does that make sense?"

Craig had only stared at her, once again preoccupied by how pale her skin was, how nondescript her haircut was. She'd had a faint scar under her nose; maybe she'd been born with a cleft palate that she'd had corrected?

"Well, at least we were right about the little fucker writing the notes," he said, finishing off the cigarette and flicking it away. "Who put him up to it, though?"

His eyes widened at the answer, remembering how ashamed Tweek had sounded when he'd admitted who had spit on him. Reaching into his pocket, Craig passed over the knife and settled his fingers around the pack of cigarettes; his mind awash with inspiration.

"Is that so? Well, that's interesting, isn't it?" He lapsed into silence again, listening to Kenny go on and on about the 'thrill of the hunt' and describing Butter's expression when the first cut had come, so unexpected; so utterly surprised. Kenny had always been the most bloodthirsty out of the group, nearly becoming uncontrollable when violence passed from open threats to actual carnage. Craig wasn't opposed to the more visceral aspects of taking care of business, but he didn't delight in it the same way. It was more a means to an end, but for McCormick it was like a religion.

"Well, at least you didn't kill him," he sighed, still holding the pack of cigarettes and formulating his next move. "It'll just take him awhile to pull his shit together so he can wander home; the sniveling piece of crap. Fucking pathetic gofer."

Tweek's sad blue eyes were all Craig could see as he drew closer and closer to home, wanting to wrap up his conversation before going inside. It wouldn't do for his annoying sister to eavesdrop, as she had a penchant for doing. He stopped in front of his house, glancing up at the warm lighting shining down on the front yard; amber squares illuminated against nightfall.

"Well, I'll take it from here," he said, raw exhilaration coursing through him at the prospect. "You did good, McCormick, but it's my turn now."

Smirking, he rolled his eyes at Kenny's habit of pontificating.

"No, I've got it covered, but thanks," he murmured, thoughts of Henrietta Biggle suddenly crowding his memories of Tweek and eclipsing them; her chubby face taking the place of Tweek crying in his arms. "I know exactly who to focus on next."


	4. Chapter 4

**No trigger warnings, I guess. Sorry if this shit is weird, lmao. I'm having fun writing characters i've never written about...it's entertaining fleshing them out. If it's boring, I apologize; i'm ramping up here, but i needed more character development. It's my bread and butter. xD **

**PS: flowers in the attic is one of my guilty pleasures bc i'm trash like henrietta and bloodrayne, lmao xD **

**PPS: can i write one story without mentioning truman capote? no. no, i can't.  
**

**HENRIETTA**

"Don't tell me you're reading that shit again. Haven't you read that book, like, fifty times at this point?"

Henrietta looked up from her copy of _Flowers in the Attic_ and frowned at the chick sacked out on her bed; feet on the pillow like she owned the place. At least she'd taken off her ridiculous platform Mary Janes first, but that was a small consolation. Making sure to dogear the page she was on, Henrietta rested the book in her lap.

"I like this book," she replied, simply.

"It's trash, though."

"You're trash, _Bloodrayne_." She snickered, loving the look on her friend's face at the mention of the moronic nickname.

"Don't call me that." Sitting up, Katie tucked her bare feet under her layered, full skirt. She adjusted the large, black bow in her hair. "You know I came to my senses about that bullshit like four years ago."

"Took you long enough," Henrietta replied, studying the cover of the worn book in her hands; a haunted, blonde haired girl looking back at her. On an intellectual level, she knew that Katie was right, that the books were indeed trash, but they were tantalizing trash; the best kind of trash. Besides, she liked to read the book when she was lapsing into a mood, and she could feel one coming on.

"Can we listen to something else, at least?" Katie complained, nudging the stereo sitting on the bed. "And why are we listening to cassettes, anyway? What is this, 1985?"

Sighing, Henrietta reached over and hit the stop button on the player, the sounds of Don Henley's 'Sunset Grill' fading from the room. Looking around, she noticed that the day had gotten away from her; yet another Saturday slipping through her fingers. Through the open window she could hear traffic passing by on the road, while late afternoon breezes were passing through her hair; lifting and rearranging the black strands. She smoothed it down, thinking once again that she should just let it grow out, but it would take so much time. Besides, Pete liked her with short hair, and she usually liked what he liked. Most of the time.

"I've told you before, I prefer cassettes. My dad had this giant collection he left behind, and he was a huge Don Henley fan. Fucking sue me."

Kate lapsed into silence, her expression becoming carefully apologetic. Sitting on Henrietta's bed, she looked like an overgrown doll, outfitted in an over the top black dress with a white ruffled collar and black ribbon under her chin. She was going through her Gothic Lolita phase. In fact, she'd been going through the same phase for years, after the Vamp and Goth kids started to slowly get the fuck over themselves. It would seem that time passing had given them the green light to realize that letting the boundaries blur a little wasn't the end of the world.

Henrietta had decided she didn't really give two shits about the Vamp and Goth war after her father committed suicide. Clique pride had kind of paled in comparison to finding her father with a shotgun in his mouth. After that day, everything had changed for her; how could it not, honestly?

Ejecting the cassette, she plucked the tape out of the player and slid it back into its case. Standing from her chaise (a bargain she'd managed to find at a yard sale...it made her feel like she was reclining in a Roman Salon whenever she used it), she went over to one of the cases stacked on the floor: her late father's cassette collection. All of his tapes were neatly lined in rows, the cases themselves covered with cheap black velveteen. Her fingers drifted over the rows before she chose another tape, Crosby, Stills, and Nash's debut album. Pulling it out, she went back to the stereo and slid it in.

"Put on your headphones," she said, going back to her chaise and picking up her book. Adjusting her short skirt, she lay back down as the strains of 'Helplessly Hoping' began to drift into the air. "If you don't like my music, you don't have to listen to it."

"Quit being a dick, you know that's not what I meant," Katie replied, laying back and staring at the ceiling. Reaching over, she picked up her own book: Henrietta's old copy of The Bell Jar. Katie was going through a Sylvia Plath phase, too, but Henrietta couldn't blame her for that. She firmly believed everyone discovered Sylvia at some point, and then they became hyper-aware of their own suffering. "It's just, I like to listen to new shit sometimes, you know? It makes me feel more connected to reality or something."

"Fuck reality," Henrietta replied, laying her book aside long enough to light up a cigarette. She placed it in its long holder before taking a drag, the blue smoke filtering into the air and wafting toward the window. "What's it ever done for us?"

"That's fair," Katie sighed, continuing to stare at the ceiling. She made no move to open her book. "Like, my parents are constantly on my ass about getting back into ballet or whatever. They just don't get that I don't give a fuck about that prissy shit anymore. How can I focus on that when the world is so messed up?"

"Hmm." Only half listening, Henrietta went back to her book, finding the exploits of children hidden away in an attic far more interesting than her friend's manufactured drama. Sure, Katie was nice and everything, but she lacked true dimension. She hadn't been hurt enough in her life, at least that was Henrietta's take on the situation. She was, at the very least, a worthwhile enough companion to wile away an afternoon with when her closer friends weren't available.

"Where's your mom, by the way?"

Fighting back the urge to snap at her friend, Henrietta lowered her book and thought for a moment. Usually, she couldn't give less of a fuck with regards to her mother's whereabouts, but the old jizz bag had been pretty quiet that afternoon, hadn't she?

"Probably in her bedroom watching home movies or something," she said, puffing on her cigarette. "Why?"

"Dunno," Katie shrugged, clasping her hands on her stomach. "It's just that she's usually found a reason to come into your room by now. I'm surprised -"

"Henrietta!" A middle aged woman suddenly burst through the door, her greying brown hair sensibly styled and short. She was always in the process of losing "just ten pounds" but they stubbornly hung on, filling out her soft, plump figure. She was dressed in navy blue scrubs, a stethoscope settled along the back of her neck.

"I'm just about to head out, sweetheart. Was there anything you needed before I left? I'm working the late -"

"Jesus fucking Christ, mom, can't you ever fucking learn to knock?!" Henrietta shrieked, throwing her book aside and sitting up, the cigarette holder still clenched in her hand. "It's bad enough you did this shit when I was a kid, but I'm almost fucking eighteen years old!"

Mrs. Biggle quickly clammed up as she studied her daughter, her smile falling from her face and leaving it doughy and deflated. The years had not been kind to her looks after her husband killed himself, but she still tried to be cheerful. Some found it charming and courageous, the grieving widow pushing on and taking care of her teenage daughter with a smile on her face, but Henrietta just found her relentlessly annoying and unbearable; she always had.

"I'm sorry, honey. I just wanted to let you know that I fixed up a casserole for you and your friend, so -"

"I'm not eating your bullshit, mom. I bet it has meat in it too, right?"

"Well, yes, there's chicken, but -"

"I'm a fucking vegetarian, mom. How many times do I have to tell you that before you get it?"

Mrs. Biggle pressed a shaking hand against her forehead, clearly trying to keep herself collected as Henrietta continued to stare her down. No wonder her father had killed himself. Anyone would with someone so clueless around, so stuck in their suburban fever dream. Her mother had always presented herself as a regular June Cleaver, wanting to believe that the world operated in the same vein as a 50s sitcom; when the fuck was she going to wake up? It seemed like not even her husband's suicide could make her see reality for what it was.

"Anyway, it's there if you want it," she finally said, smiling timidly at Katie, who was busily worrying the hem of her dress. Henrietta rolled her eyes. What a chickenshit.

"Whatever," Henrietta said, dismissively. Sucking on her cigarette, she opened up her book again. After a moment, she looked up, noticing that her mother was still lingering in the doorway, staring at her with bizarre, hungry eyes. "What?"

"This was one of your dad's favorite albums," she murmured, looking up at the ceiling; the music of Crosby, Stills, and Nash filling the late afternoon air. "What is this, Judy Blue Eyes? Did I ever tell you, he..."

She trailed off, dropping her focus back to her daughter. A look of resignation flitted across her features, making her appear much older.

"I'll do a load of laundry tomorrow," she said, beginning to close the door. "Just leave your basket in the laundry room and I'll take care of it."

"Right," Henrietta sighed, going back to her book. "Close the door all the way."

The door closed quietly, and even through the music Henrietta could hear her mother's footsteps retreating down the hallway. She could also feel Katie staring at her, but she didn't want to acknowledge her pity or her curiosity. Instead, she furiously sucked her cigarette down to the filter, the smoke filtering out of her nostrils and mouth. Standing, she restlessly went to the window to watch her mother get in her Corolla and drive away. She was heading for yet another late shift at Hell's Pass, having joined the work force late in life but taking to it with her usual tenacity. Henrietta smiled a little, giving herself permission to at least be proud of her mom's ability to go back to school and become an LPN.

Glancing up the street, she noticed a figure drawing closer to her house, clad in a blue hat, jacket, and dark jeans. Momentarily curious, her eyes widened when she realized who it was: Craig Tucker. What was that little fucker doing on this side of town? They'd had to relocate after her father killed himself, into a smaller, more affordable home. Their new neighborhood was nice enough, but as far as she knew none of the Tucker kid's friends lived around here. Not that she paid much attention to anyone outside of her group. She sucked in a breath, a sudden realization coming to her with cutting clarity. How could she be so fucking slow?

"What's up?" Katie asked, peering around her. Her eyes widened when she saw Craig. "Hey, isn't that that Tucker kid? The one that fucks around with -"

"Shut up," Henrietta hissed, pulling away from the window and going to the stereo. She shut the music off, plunging the room into silence. "You should probably leave, by the way. I have a feeling this conversation isn't gonna go smoothly."

"What, is he here to see you?" Katie asked, eyebrows raised. Sudden understanding erupted in her eyes. "Do you think this is about, you know?"

"Of fucking course that's what I think," Henrietta snapped, pulling out another cigarette and lighting it up. She snapped it into the holder, her hand shaking slightly. "Not that I'm too worried."

"Then would it be okay if I stayed? I actually think Tucker's kind of cute, not that Mike would be too happy to hear me say that." Katie grinned, fluffing up her dress a little.

Henrietta rolled her eyes and pointed toward the door.

"Believe me, Tucker will never be interested in you. He's too hung up on that Tweek kid. Now get out, okay? I'll call you later."

"But -"

"Go," Henrietta seethed. "It's not like Tucker and I are going to be shooting the breeze, anyway. You know that."

"So you spit on his man," Katie shrugged, sliding her Mary Janes on and tightening the buckles. "I mean, it was gross and rude as fuck but what's the big deal?"

"It goes deeper than that," Henrietta muttered, nervously taking a drag.

"Oh?" Now Katie stopped, her shoes on her feet but her ass not moving for the door like it should. Henrietta groaned.

"Just fucking go or I won't keep sharing my Xanax with you." She flicked some ash from her cigarette, adopting an innocent look.

Katie stood quickly, smoothing down her skirt and coming over to Henrietta. She dropped a quick kiss on her head before heading for the door, her silver pigtails cascading down her back. She glanced over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes.

"You'll call me, right?"

"I already told you I would, now move your ass," Henrietta sighed, sitting back. "And let him in on your way out. He's probably already at the door."

"Right, got it," Katie replied, pausing for a second longer. "I wonder if he'll give me his number."

"Unless your name's Tweek, you aren't getting shit from him anytime soon. Focus on Mike for once, now fucking move."

"Ugh, you're no fun," Katie said, finally opening the door and exiting, leaving it open just a tad.

White she waited, Henrietta opened her pack of Virginia Slims and groaned. Great, only three left, and she had a feeling she was going to be chain smoking for the rest of the day after her upcoming tête-à-tête. Sighing, she set them aside and looked toward the door, sudden soft footsteps making their way to her ears. She lay back, readying herself for whatever was to come. The silence weighed heavy as the footsteps approached, and at the last moment she reached over and hit the play button on the stereo, almost breathing a sigh of relief when music flooded the room.

She was struck by Craig's angular handsomeness as soon as he stepped through the door, having never really paid him much mind. His features were similar to Pete's when she really thought about it: pale skin, high cheekbones, thin lips. The major difference between them were their eyes. While Pete's were a vivid light brown, always frenzied and darting around, Craig's were cold and probing; they gave nothing back, nothing at all. She met them directly, though; unflinching.

"Your friend," he said, his monotone drawl nearly becoming lost in Crosby, Stills, and Nash, "what's with her outfit? Does she think she's in an anime or something?"

Rolling her eyes, Henrietta reached over and turned down the music a titch. Turning back to Craig, she shrugged languidly while taking a long drag on her cigarette; blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth.

"She thinks she's Kanon Wakeshima."

Craig stared at her, unblinking.

"And that is?"

"Never mind," she replied, flicking some ash into a skull mug on her dresser. "What do you want?"

Now Craig didn't miss a beat when he answered, his face remaining impassive.

"You already know."

"Do I?"

Silence, save for the music:

_"Letting myself wander through the world inside your eyes  
You know I'd like to stay here until every tear runs dry..." _

"Quit fucking around," Craig said.

Henrietta smirked, finding a certain amount of respect for Craig's straightforwardness while also being deeply offended by his tone. She wasn't used to anyone speaking to her like that.

"You're not big on small talk, are you?"

"No, I'm not," Craig replied, his eyes trained on her cigarette now. Removing one of his hands from his pocket, he brushed some hair out of his face. "I'm also not big on assholes who go around bullying people for the hell of it."

"Is that so?" Reaching over, Henrietta knocked some more ash off of her cigarette.

"You'd think someone who found their father after he blew his head off would be a little bit more sensitive."

She sucked in a breath and held a hand to her chest, feigning horror and surprise. This fucker really didn't mince words, did he?

"You're a mean ass little shit, aren't you?" She asked, almost laughing now.

Craig shrugged, his eyes flitting from her cigarette back to her face.

"I just don't appreciate it when someone I care about is being messed with. Is that really surprising?"

"Look," she replied, leaning forward and stubbing her cigarette out. She shifted, pulling her skirt down over her full thighs as she folded them closer to her body. "It wasn't personal, okay? So, I spit on him. He'll live."

"How the fuck can you spit on someone and it not be personal?"

Not used to being the subject of such intense scrutiny, Henrietta began to feel agitated. It didn't help that Craig rarely seemed to blink, his unrelenting stare akin to the empty look of a morphine addict.

"I was having a bad day, I guess."

Not to mention Pete said he thought Tweek was cute. He said it in passing, but it was enough to piss Henrietta off. She'd already known that Pete batted for both teams, but she didn't need it shoved in her face; especially when she was under the impression that they were so fucking close.

"That's not an excuse."

"Well, it's all I have to offer; take it or leave it," Henrietta snapped, staring down at the maroon colored polish on her toenails. It was pretty badly chipped; she'd need to see to that as soon as this asshole finally left her room.

"Let me ask you a question," Craig began, going over to the bed and sitting down. He pulled out a pocketknife and a pack of cigarettes along with a lighter; he lay them aside. She stared at the knife for a moment, nonplussed. "Do you think you're the only person with problems?"

She hadn't expected this question and she lapsed into a pensive silence, trying to formulate a response.

"I suppose not."

"Then why do you act like you are?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, becoming even more agitated.

"I don't."

"And yet you walk around thinking it's perfectly okay to spit on people who already have a shit ton on their plate."

Raking a hand through her hair, her eyes flicked to the knife again. It was unusually large for a pocketknife with a forest green handle.

"Oh, please. What problems could that kid possibly have?"

"Stop playing stupid. You know Tweek is one of the only openly gay kids at school. He's already dealing with a bunch of bullshit because of that. He seriously doesn't fucking need some skanky bitch spitting on him on top of it."

"Hey, who the fuck do you think you're talking to right now?" Henrietta yelled, sitting up. Her taffeta dress crinkled around her. "I don't give a shit if that kid is gay or not. Me spitting on him had nothing to do with that!"

Flicking open the knife, Craig crossed one leg over the other. He began sawing away some ragged edges on the bottom of his jeans. She laughed, but it came out sounding like a bark.

"I know you're trying to threaten me right now with your little toy, but I don't scare that easily. I'm not like Butters."

He paused, the knife still in his hand; his eyes slowly sliding to meet hers.

"You'd know if I was threatening you. I'm only here to offer a warning."

"Don't you think you're blowing this whole thing out of proportion? Can't your little boyfriend handle a little bit of teasing?"

"No, he can't," Craig said, snapping the knife closed. "In fact, I could see him killing himself if push came to shove; very easily. He's the gentlest, most sensitive person I know, and if that ever happened..." he stared down at his hands, and she could see that they were trembling slightly; they clenched shut, slowly. Looking up, his eyes appeared even more remote than before.

"It wouldn't be pretty, that much I can say." He studied her for a moment, a tiny muscle jumping in his jaw. "People do crazy, impulsive things when their backs are against the wall, don't they? What about your father?"

She bristled, suddenly noticing that the music wasn't playing anymore; the tape having reached its end. She didn't move to flip it.

"My father didn't kill himself because he was weak," she muttered, reaching for her cigarettes. God, she could seriously use a Xanax and a glass of wine right about then. She hadn't talked about her father this much in ages, not since the last time she and Pete had gotten high, fucked, and then stayed up all night talking. She frowned, suddenly feeling terribly lonely. "He offed himself because he was sick, and this joke of a country doesn't get that people should be able to die with dignity."

Craig watched her fumble to get a cigarette from the pack. When she finally did, she managed to drop her lighter.

"Goddammit," she said, groping on the floor for it; he didn't move to help. "Where the fuck did it go?"

"It rolled under the bed," he said, picking up his own lighter. He flicked it on and held it toward her. "Here."

Reluctantly, she leaned forward and allowed him to light her cigarette, puffing a couple times to get it going. Sitting back, she stared at him, unable to make heads or tails of his behavior. The kid was way weirder than she would've initially thought.

"Thanks."

Ignoring her gratitude, he opened his own pack of cigarettes and pulled one out. He lit it as well, taking a long drag. Blowing the smoke toward her, he just stared at her for a moment, eyes unmoving; the smoke almost matching his irises.

"Dignity's pretty important, isn't it?" He asked, reaching over and flicking off some ash into the skull.

She shrugged, wrapping an arm around her bent legs; she settled her cheek on her knee.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Then why are you and your friends fucking with Tweek and Kyle? What's your fucking deal, huh?"

"We aren't."

"Save it. Butters told Kenny that Pete had him write those notes and put them in Tweek and Kyle's lockers. That shit was fucked up."

"No, fucked up was cutting him open to get him to talk," Henrietta replied, her tone casual. "Besides, Pete didn't tell that stupid kid to write anything about them being gay. Not that I know of, anyway."

"Why'd he have Butters write anything? Why Tweek and Kyle?"

"Why don't you ask him, huh? It's not like I'm his personal secretary or anything."

"Aren't you fucking him? You should know his motivations in all of this, right?" Craig took another drag, the smoke streaming from his nose. Somewhere outside, a car backfired, making Henrietta jump. She just wanted him to leave.

"Pete does whatever the fuck he wants," she said, closing her eyes and keeping them shut. "He's always been like that, okay? I have no idea what motivates him, other than getting off on messing with people."

"So, he's just an asshole."

She shrugged.

"More or less. But then again, so are you, aren't you?"

She slid her eyes open, still feeling lonely but vaguely pathetic, too. Here she was pining for a guy who had a thing for little yellow haired twinks, apparently. Not that he'd ever turned her down, not when they were drunk or strung out or laying out under the stars...watching meteor showers and waxing poetic. Those were the moments she lived for more than ever; the only times she could forget the last few years.

"Sure, but at least I have a reason," he replied, dropping his focus to study her pale legs; eyes drifting and studying for a moment. She shifted, feeling exposed and newly afraid. Now she really just wanted him to leave.

"Fine, we're having a party tomorrow night," she finally said, tapping her cigarette against the skull. "In Firkle's basement. Why don't you stop by and just talk to Pete yourself? I really can't answer for him; it isn't my place."

"Will he talk to me?" Craig asked.

Henrietta blinked, surprised at this question.

"Probably. I mean, I think he will. Once again, you never fucking know with him. He'd kind of lost his shit since his grandma got sick."

Craig rolled his eyes and stood, gathering up his stuff and putting it back in his pockets. Finishing his cigarette, he tipped it into the skull.

"Everyone's got a sob story these days, don't they?" He paused, tapping his lip for a moment as he studied her. She drew her knees in closer to her chest, covering herself more. "I'll probably send Stan to talk to him. Didn't he fuck with you guys in the past?"

"God, that kid," she sighed, remembering the poser vividly. He'd been such a drag. She waved her cigarette dismissively. "Fine, sure. Whatever. I'll let the guys know that he'll be dropping by."

"See that you do," he said, eyeing the cigarette holder for a moment. "You're a regular Holly Golightly, aren't you?"

She smiled despite herself.

"I wouldn't have pegged you as a fan of _Breakfast at Tiffany's_."

"I'm not," he replied. "Although I am pretty fond of _In Cold Blood_."

**CRAIG**

He'd had every intention of burning that sad, silly bitch with the cigarettes in his pocket, but instead they'd sat and shared a smoke together. Would wonders ever cease? Who the fuck could say anymore? The wind had been stolen from his sails as soon as he saw the state of her legs; pale and full and thick. Really, they weren't bad, if you liked that sort of thing; he most certainly didn't. In her short, black taffeta she'd almost resembled a porcelain ballerina; black lips and all. Craig had almost managed to find her attractive, in a strange, tragic sort of way, though that over the top Goth look never did much for him.

_She must be into some freaky shit_, he mused as he left Henrietta's house. _I've never seen so many burn scars in my life. _

It's not like he didn't know what the aftermath of burning someone with a cigarette looked like. He'd used it as a persuasion tactic in the past, or if someone was being particularly annoying or difficult. Her skin had been littered with the little pink scars, shiny and plentiful. He'd also noticed a fair amount of scars that looked like they'd been done with a razor; self mutilation scars, most likely. Unless of course she and that Pete kid were into blood play, which was entirely probable. The Goth kids lived on the fringes of society, it made sense that they'd dabble in dark, weird shit.

Not that he cared either way. She had tried to play it off, but he could tell that he'd unnerved her; put her on edge. He couldn't see her fucking with Tweek again anytime in the future, though he was still very curious about why that Pete fucker would get Butters to write and distribute hate notes to two of the most persecuted kids in the school. She hadn't said it in so many words, but he had a feeling Pete just liked to fuck with people, which was fine, just so long as it wasn't anyone he cared about. That's when they had a problem.

_I'll just have Stan check it out, either way,_ he thought, pulling out his phone. _Might as well nip this bullshit in the bud before it goes too far. _

**STAN**

Kyle was Stan's cherry-topped sundae. At least, that's how he thought of him most of the time...sweet and creamy and delicious. Stan associated Kyle with everything happy in his life: sunsets, the smell of freshly cut grass at dusk, that first shot of Jack in the morning. He embodied everything that made life bearable as far as Stan was concerned.

It didn't hurt that Kyle even seemed to resemble a mound of vanilla ice cream topped with a cherry: pale, smooth skin and that luscious, red hair; perfect, scarlet curlicues. Stan always got the distinct impression that he put Kyle on too high of a pedestal, idolized him too much, but he couldn't help it. He'd never been able to help it. The moment Kenny had introduced the idea that it was okay to adore Kyle was the moment Stan's life seemed to begin, and it couldn't have come soon enough...not after the bullshit he'd had to wade through for so long.

Stan had always been pegged as sensitive and caring, and he supposed that in some ways he could still be considered as such, though the years had not been kind in preserving his humanity. Really, no one in the group was who they used to be, not after time and circumstance had sanded away their innocence, but he could still muster up the soft side of himself for Kyle; all of them could. Kyle represented an ideal for them...in a way, he was almost like the last part of their childhood, and they'd all do whatever they could to protect it; protect him. No matter what happened, the redhead held onto the beauty in his personality, and Stan loved him all the more for it. He wanted to save him from the darkness in the town, because it'd already seemed to capture everyone else.

"Since when do you hang out with the goth kids?" Kyle asked, looked decidedly fetching as he sat in Stan's twin bed, naked and clutching the sheets to his chest. He was watching as Stan dressed, donning a black t-shirt and dark jeans; red converse on his feet. The light falling through the window illuminated his sleepy eyes, green and content.

Stan shrugged, running a hand through his too-long hair and brushing it off of his forehead. He needed to get it cut but he just couldn't seem to work up the energy.

"I have something I need to discuss with them," he replied, going to the dresser and opening the bottom drawer. He pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels, fully intending to pre-game. He'd need a buzz to deal with those goth fuckers, trying as they were.

"Can I have some?" Kyle asked, eyeing Stan's shot glass as he brought it to his mouth. He smirked cheekily.

"You don't like to drink," Stan said, pouring himself another shot. He stared at it for a moment before sighing and bringing it over to Kyle, who rolled his eyes.

"I was just joking," he said, letting the sheets drop and revealing himself completely. Shifting, he curled his legs underneath him, moving so smoothly that Stan almost had to catch his breath. Why did he have to be so beautiful?

"You're such a brat." Stan smiled indulgently before downing the booze, relishing its burn. He also appreciated that Kyle never scolded him about his drinking, even though he knew that he wanted to. The truth was written in his face, in the way he studied Stan whenever he was getting sloshed, but he never pressed. He had to know it wouldn't do any good.

"Is it okay if I stay here until you get back?" Kyle asked, looking around the room. "Or did you want me to come with you? That could be fun, right?"

Stan grimaced, setting his glass down with a clunk.

"No way," he muttered, reaching out and tousling Kyle's curls, all cutely disheveled following an afternoon of breathless trysting. "I'm not going to this bullshit to have fun, dude. I have business to take care of."

"Right, business with the goth kids," Kyle huffed, pouting a little. "I'm sure it's so important."

"It is, actually," Stan replied, softly; studying him for a moment. "Have you gotten anymore notes or anything in your locker since that day? I've been meaning to ask."

Kyle shook his head, his playful demeanor beginning to falter.

"No, I haven't," he said. "I think it was just a fluke, honestly. Someone thought they were being funny."

"Yeah, terrorizing another person is such a huge fucking joke," Stan said, his hand clenching at his side. God, he wanted to knock that Pete motherfucker out. He would've beat the shit out of Butters too if Kenny hadn't already gotten to him with the business end of a switchblade. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down; he never wanted Kyle to see him when he was starting to lose control.

"You can stay here, by the way," he added, pulling away. Kyle was looking up at him with such trusting, loving eyes; like he knew Stan completely. How would he feel if he knew the truth, that all of them were willing to kill for him and Tweek? Stan couldn't even fathom having that conversation with him.

"Are you sure your parents won't mind?" Kyle asked, sounding so sweet and unsure.

Stan snorted, feeling in his pocket for his phone and wallet; making sure he was ready to go.

"My parents won't even notice you're here, Kyle. Mom's probably getting loaded on red wine as we speak and my dad could be fucking anywhere; the flighty fucking asshole."

Kyle was quiet for a moment as he stared down at his lap.

"Do they ever talk about getting a divorce, you think?"

"I fucking wish they would," Stan said, leaning down to kiss the top of Kyle's head; his curls smelling faintly of rose hips and clean sweat. "It would make my life so much easier."

"I wish you and I could just live together," Kyle murmured, glancing up at him. "With Kenny, too, of course. Oh, and Cartman, if he'd be willing to behave."

"That'll be the day," Stan smiled, kissing him again; over and over. God, he just didn't want to leave. "That'd be nice, though; all of us together."

"We're all we have," Kyle said, reaching down and taking a hold of the sheet again. He covered himself, almost making Stan protest, but it was probably for the best; he had to go anyway.

"Whoever said blood is thicker than water is full of shit," Stan said, drawing back and staring into Kyle's eyes. "That much I know."

* * *

Stan was greeted at the backdoor of Firkle's basement by a weirdo in a horse mask. He cocked an eyebrow, even more glad that he was already slightly tipsy.

"I thought there was a party or something tonight," he said, studying the winner wearing the horse mask and standing there, unmoving. "Was I misinformed, or what?"

Horse mask merely 'stared' at him, plastic, dead eyes staring off in different directions. All at once, a voice emanated from beneath it.

"Right, we're celebrating McKowski's liberation from Sheppard Pratt. You didn't know?"

Stan was still, trying to scrape together some recollection of what the fuck this person was talking about. He shrugged.

The person pushed back their mask and there was Pete, stupid red and black hair obscuring one side of his face. He grinned, but it smacked of malice instead of cheer.

"Sorry, the psych ward. We're celebrating him getting out of the psych ward. Come in, Henrietta said you'd be dropping by." He stood back, allowing Stan entrance. Shutting the door, the room was plunged back into gritty shades of black, red, and ambient shades of yellow.

When Stan's eyes adjusted, he saw that everyone else was wearing a horse mask as well, and he could feel his annoyance levels rising.

"What the fuck is your guys' deal?" He asked, staring at a huge TV that had a horse on the screen as well; roan red and pretty, in an equine way. "Are you just trying to be weird, or what?"

"Be cool, man," a smaller kid piped up, pushing off his mask and staring at Stan with dead eyes. "It's his favorite movie."

"What is?"

"Zoo," Henrietta piped up, leaning back against the couch and smoking a cigarette. "It's a fairy tale between man and horse."

Stan could only look around the group of assembled horses and shrug, almost wishing he'd opted to bring along the entire bottle of Jack Daniels instead of just taking a couple shots.

"I have no fucking clue what you guys are talking about."

"Hey, it's the dude that's friends with the dude that fucked up the Stotch kid," the smaller kid said, and suddenly Stan recognized him even through the gloom: Firkle.

"Yeah, that's what I wanted to talk to you assholes about," Stan said, trying to get a handle on the scene before him. To think, he could've been in bed fucking Kyle at just that very moment. Craig fucking owed him for this.

All at once, a taller kid came forward and pulled back his horse mask as well, revealing a scrawny face with curly black hair. He studied Stan for a moment before he smirked, opening his arms wide.

"It's been a long time," he said, gesturing to a table covered over with booze; there was a candy dish filled with assorted pills. "Why don't you have a drink and a snort, and then we can talk."

"A snort?"

"Sure," the kid shrugged, sticking a finger in the bowl and swirling it a little. "We have Adderall, k-pins, molly, oxys...it's a mixed bag, really."

Stan eyed the bowl of pharmaceuticals for a moment before he shrugged.

"Whatever. I guess I'll start with a shot and then we can negotiate."

"Sounds great," the kid said, and Stan recalled his name in a flash, just like he'd done with Firkle: Michael, the other goth kid. He poured a shot of Malibu Black for Stan and handed it to him, grinning.

"Welcome to the party."


	5. Chapter 5

**Slight trigger warnings: some smut and implied child sexual abuse. This is the stuff I write when I'm coasting through mania, so take from that what you will. I just always felt like the goth kids represented potential anarchy. And Butters? He's always struck me as having a darker, meaner side. Maybe that's just me, I don't know. South Park is a town comprised of broken people...at least in this universe. x) I jumped around in the timeline a lot, too, so...hope i didn't make it too, too jumbled, haha. This took me over a week to write which almost never happens but i'm sick of looking at it, so...yeah. ANYWAY, ENJOY **

**PS: I listened to a metric fuck-ton of Nicole Dollanganger while writing this - she's perfect for this story, I think. xD**

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

**I wake up and I creep**  
**Down the hall to your feet**  
**Where I lay like a dog for you**  
**In silk down to my knees**  
**Wet with spit, red with need**  
**Three fingers in, you go deep**  
**Reach inside me, please hide me**  
**Somewhere they will never find me**  
**I will always come to you**  
**When I'm weak and empty**  
**With my wedding night blues**  
**When I need you to fill me**  
**Like you do**

**-Uncle, Nicole Dollanganger**

* * *

**PETE**

The first time Pete fucked Butters it was on a dare, a double-dog dare, to be precise.

"You won't do it," Michael had said while rolling another joint, bony fingers working to and fro. Holding it up to the light, he'd appraised it, eyes narrowed. The scent of dragon's blood incense and weed had permeated Firkle's basement while Japanese electronica played in the background. Henrietta had been sitting off to the side, openly scowling while sucking on a Virginia Slim and nursing a glass of Chardonnay.

Firkle, for his part, had been swaying to the music in just his tight black jeans, pale skin glowing in the red lights being thrown from around the room. His idea of ambiance was recreating a bordello from the Red Light District; incense floating through the air and lamps covered in scarlet cloths. His shadow had been passing over a large print of The Dream of the Fisherman's Wife hanging on the wall, a birthday gift from the group because it was all he'd wanted. Firkle had always had a penchant for tentacle erotica so they'd decided to indulge him.

"I kind of want to do some whip-its tonight," he'd mused, clearly not very invested in the conversation taking place around him. He'd always been the most easygoing person in the group, just wanting to go with the flow of things. His temper, however, was the worst, but he only brought it out on special occasions.

Pete had rolled his eyes at Firkle before turning back to Michael, accepting the joint when he'd passed it over. Lighting it, he'd sucked in some smoke and held it in his lungs until they'd burned, studying his friend's sallow, pockmarked face. He was attractive in an underfed, teenage boy way, but he'd never been Pete's type. Not like -

"Come on, you said he was cute," Michael had said, cutting into his thoughts and watching as Pete took another longer pull on the joint, cocking an eyebrow at his obvious lack of decorum. They'd all agreed long ago that taking double hits was in poor taste, but Pete didn't care; he was reasonably annoyed.

"No, I said that Tweek kid is cute," he'd corrected Michael, finally passing the joint back. "Not Butters. You know that."

"What's the difference?" Michael had asked, and Pete had to admit that he saw his point, at least somewhat. The two kids were similar: blonde-haired, blue-eyed, shy. Retiring. Weird. Cute. "He could be, like, a proxy or something."

"What the fuck are we even talking about right now?" Pete had snapped, sliding his focus over to Henrietta; not surprised at all by her obvious irritation. He'd anticipated her getting attached when they'd finally fucked but he still found it trying. He'd tried to explain to her that he couldn't see himself with just one person anytime soon. Maybe it would happen someday but it wasn't going to happen until he was ready, and it probably wasn't going to happen with her. He'd conveniently left that part out when he'd finally gotten her panties off, but that hadn't really been the time for conversation anyway.

"I think it would be funny," Michael had said simply, taking his own drag on the blunt now and blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Its haze had filled the air with its blueish tinge, had obscured the hentai playing on the giant flat screen in the corner. Firkle also had a penchant for anime girls in sexual peril.

"Funny," Pete had repeated, rolling the word around in his head. "I don't follow."

"Yes, you do." Michael had given him a look then, a knowing narrowing of the eyes and Pete had flipped his hair out of his face, beginning to feel drained. Yes, he had known what Michael was getting at, because Michael had always been transparent about his motivations. They both enjoyed fucking with people, but for Michael it was the ultimate form of recreation. He'd learned long ago that people, for the most part, were stupid, and as such it was his duty to exploit this fact. Pete felt the same way but it annoyed him that Michael's withering opinion of society seemed to extend to his friends, and he had no issue with shifting them around as well; even if he did claim to care about them in his own strange way.

"Come on, I dare you," Michael had continued, using his cane to stand from the couch so he could offer the joint to Henrietta as well, who had waved it away. "In fact, I'll make a bet with you. If you can get that Stotch kid to give it up I'll give you my most prized possession."

"I can't believe I'm listening to this right now," Henrietta had snapped, stubbing her cigarette out like she was trying to impale the plate they used as an ashtray. "Don't you fuckers have any morals at all?"

"Save it, Hen," Michael had replied, mildly. "You go around hocking loogies on poor little gay boys. Who are you to judge?"

"It wasn't a loogie, you asshole. And besides, that pales in comparison to the shit you two are going on about right now."

"You're just jealous," Michael had said, having never been afraid to speak cruel truths aloud. If anything, he reveled in it. He'd given her an impassive smile as he'd turned back to Pete, who'd felt momentary compassion for Henrietta's destroyed expression, but it had been fleeting.

"Lay off, Mike," he'd said, wanting to throw her a bone but regretting it immediately when she'd turned hungry eyes on him, full of want and need. He'd frowned. She'd become so needy since her father had killed himself, although, to be fair, she'd always been needy. She was obsessed with her own tragedy, clearly, but she didn't seem to realize that it didn't necessarily make her interesting. Pete had always gotten the impression that Henrietta overestimated her own personal depth, but she was still a good lay, so he could overlook her delusions most of the time.

"Don't call me Mike, you know I hate it," Michael had said, cocking an eyebrow at him. "So, what do you say?"

"Let me see if I understand. You want me to fuck around with Butters because it'll amuse you. Am I right?"

Michael had nodded.

"It'll amuse you, too."

"Pete's always amused when he's getting his dick wet," Henrietta had muttered, leaning forward and fishing a k-pin out of the bowl of pills sitting on the coffee table.

"Little birds in their nests agree*," Firkle had interjected, continuing to sway to the music, snapping his fingers now and again; horribly off-beat. "Come on, you guys. What about those whip-its?"

"You've fried your brain, darling," Henrietta had sighed, reaching out and brushing Firkle's leg with her foot. "Don't you think you should eat something, huh?"

"I already ate," Firkle had replied, gesturing to a nearly untouched lunchable sitting next to the bowl of pills. "See?"

"Anyway," Pete had cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose after studying Firkle's startling emaciation. The kid was usually flying high on Adderall, so getting him to eat was always a trial, one they usually lost. "If you think it'll be so funny, why don't you try to get with him yourself?"

"Right, the asexual kid is going to put the moves on the obvious twink," Michael had rolled his eyes. "Are you listening to yourself right now? You're the slobbering sex-fiend around here, not me."

"You do realize you're a sociopath, right?"

"I double-dog dare you," Michael had replied, ignoring Pete's question even though it seemed to delight him; his eyes brightening.

"Oh, so you're just going to bypass the double dare and jump to the serious shit, huh?"

"He's always at the library," Michael went on, seemingly having a conversation with Pete against his will. "At least that's what my mom told me. I guess he doesn't have a lot of friends so that's where he hangs out after school."

"Your mom is such a bitch," Pete had replied, idly. They'd all just nodded their heads in unison at this out-of-nowhere declaration, and some of the tension suddenly eased from the room. If there was anything that they could all agree on, it was that their parents sucked; except for Pete's meemaw, of course. She was a goddamn gem.

"Fine, whatever. At least it'll give me something to focus on instead of you dicks," he'd said, standing and flipping his hair off his face again. Ignoring Henrietta's look of betrayal, he'd brushed a kiss on her forehead and she'd noticeably relaxed. He'd strayed a finger over one of the old scars on her thighs and he'd grinned, remembering how he'd lapped up the blood while she'd tried not to giggle too loudly; his meemaw asleep in the next room. They'd always loved experimenting together.

"You aren't staying?" She'd asked, taking his hand and pressing a black-lipped kiss against his knuckles.

"Nah, gotta get home," he'd explained, pulling away and heading for the door. "I told my meemaw that I'd make dinner tonight. She wasn't feeling so great this morning."

"Give her a kiss from me," Firkle had said, hugging his scrawny arms over his chest.

"Yeah, tell the old broad I hope she feels better soon," Michael had added, having acquired a surprising soft spot for the ailing woman. "She's okay in my book."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear that," Pete had replied, knowing in his heart that she would be very pleased, actually. There was a reason why his meemaw was the only adult they didn't all actively hate for one reason or another.

* * *

Pete had been dropped on his meemaw's doorstep like a lost puppy a little over a decade before, for what his mother said would be a weekend visit. She'd kissed her hand and waved from the front seat of her dumpy Acura, not bothering to get out as she'd watched her son struggle with his suitcases. Suitcases that had seemed alarmingly full for a two day stay, but he hadn't protested at the time. He'd gone along with the way of things because he was a stupid little kid that didn't know any better. God, he wished he could be naive like that again sometimes, but mostly he wanted to kick himself for being so trusting.

His meemaw had come to the door and given her daughter a look of faint disapproval before regarding Pete with a slightly bewildered, tired expression. As his mom's car had pulled away, spitting up gravel and dust, they'd studied one another for several moments until the old woman had sighed and patted his shoulder before turning away.

"Come along," she'd said, shuffling heavily into the trailer. "I imagine she didn't feed you before dropping you off."

"We had pop tarts," Pete had replied, heaving his bags into the small living room and throwing them on olive-colored shag carpet. The interior of the trailer had a 70s vibe that he wouldn't have been able to place at the time, but it became obvious as he'd grown older. "She likes to put 'em on the dash so they warm up while we're driving."

"Does she now," she'd said but her tone suggested that she wasn't as impressed with this bit of cleverness as her grandson. She'd shaken her head then. "Junk food. Well, I shouldn't be surprised, Margaret was never too concerned about her health."

"What?" Pete had asked, curious to hear more about his mother but also weirded out at hearing her called by her first name.

"Nothing," she'd replied, cocking a brow at the waiting bags. "Let's take these to the guest room and then you can get settled, okay? I've made a meatloaf and Supermarket Sweep starts in ten minutes."

That first evening had passed uneventfully enough, with the pair eating ketchup-frosted meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and roasted carrots off of TV trays while watching contestants stuff shopping carts with hams and produce. Pete didn't really understand what the point was, but he had to admit that he liked his meemaw's cooking. How could he not when his mother's idea of a home-cooked meal was burned fish sticks or tuna sandwiches made with too much Miracle Whip?

It wasn't until bedtime that Pete had begun to feel uneasy, an odd fear nagging at him as he'd tried to settle into the firm mattress under one of his meemaw's heavy handmade quilts. He's still felt damp from the bath he'd taken in the tiny bathroom, his bottom brushing against the rough ducks plastered on the floor of the tub. His meemaw had inspected his work, checking behind his ears and under his nails, and even this tiny gesture was enough to make him feel confused. His mother hadn't done that in years, not since he'd passed the age of five and she'd told him he was old enough to look after himself.

"Are you warm enough?" His meemaw had asked while tucking him in tighter, her gnarled hands pressing the quilt under his legs and feet. "I can get another quilt from the hall closet yonder."

"No, I'm fine," Pete had replied, already feeling too warm from being tucked in so aggressively. For whatever reason, he didn't want to tell the old woman that, and he'd realized that he was enjoying her attentions even if he didn't necessarily understand them. He'd bitten his lip while looking around the unfamiliar room, at the garish flowered wallpaper and sturdy furniture; the way the moon had glowed through the Venetian blinds. In that moment, he'd wondered where his mother was, remembering vaguely that she'd spoken about driving out of town for a job interview. Knowing she was so far away made him whimper before he could stop himself.

"Why don't we read a story, huh?" She'd asked, pushing his light brown hair off of his forehead. "What do you say?"

"What story?"

She'd crossed her large arms over her powder-blue, housecoat-covered bosom and raised her eyebrows.

"Well, what do you like?"

He'd shrugged, not sure how to answer that question. His mother had never been big on reading, unless you counted Jackie Collins and Redbook as articles worth reading; he couldn't be sure. Normally she'd just shoved Pete in front of the TV to quiet him down instead of encouraging him to expand his imagination through the written word.

"How about a nice fairy tale?"

Pete had scrunched his face up at this suggestion, having already acquired an aversion for anything Disney-related very early on in life. It always felt like the fluffy animated movies were talking down to him somehow, though he hadn't been able to articulate why he felt that way at the time.

She'd laughed at his reaction.

"I take it you don't like them?"

"They're for babies," he'd said, turning over on his side, which had required some effort considering how tightly he'd been tucked in. "Crabs don't really sing, and fish don't talk to mermaids - or at all."

"Ah, now I see," she'd said, nodding her head slowly. "So you haven't heard the real stories."

"Real stories?"

Standing, she'd left the room for a moment before coming back, her round body coming to rest on the edge of the bed again, making the mattress sag. She had soft gray hair that had been braided into a long tail that hung down her back, a big pair of reading glasses now perched on her nose. She'd held up a big book with a maroon cover, the pages gilded.

"Hans Christian Anderson," she'd said, opening the book before licking a finger and turning the pages. "Ah, here it is, The Little Mermaid."

He'd pouted even though he had to admit he was mildly curious. He also didn't want to be alone, so he was willing to put up with hearing a baby story, if it meant the old woman would stay a little longer. Resting against the pillow, Pete had studied the old woman as she began to read, her wrinkles seeming to deepen in the gold light coming from the bedside lamp, but before too long she'd faded away as he'd become lost in talk of magic potions, walking on knives, and the mermaid choosing to sacrifice herself rather than kill the prince so she could regain her magnificent tail and return to the sea.

If he'd known the term at the time he would've called the story "hardcore," but because he didn't, he'd had to fall back on his seven year old vocabulary.

"Wow," he'd said as his meemaw closed the book and smiled a little, knowing smile. "That's way better than the movie. Why'd they change it?"

She'd plucked her reading glasses off of her face before thinking a moment, her brow knitted.

"I suppose they thought the real story would frighten children, or they wouldn't understand it. I can't be sure, truthfully."

"I didn't think it was scary at all," Pete had replied, feeling inexplicably annoyed at this 'they' she spoke of. "And why wouldn't we understand it? Do they think kids are dumb or something?"

"I just think some grownups forget what it's like to be a child," she'd mused while smoothing out his comforter once more. "They stop thinking of them as people at some point so they forget how to talk to children."

"Well, I think that's stupid."

"I can see why," she'd said, wryly before turning out the light. "Now it's time for you to sleep. We can read another story tomorrow, if you'd like."

He'd glanced at the book in the darkness, taking note of its thickness before frowning.

"Will you be able to read all of them to me before I leave?"

She'd become silent at that question, the atmosphere shifting slightly as she'd risen slowly from the bed.

"We'll see, Petey." She'd leaned down to kiss his cheek, smelling of lavender and something minty he couldn't place. "Sleep now, it's late."

They'd finished the complete works of Hans Christian Anderson as well as the majority of Grimm's Fairy Tales by the time Pete had figured out the lay of the land, although he still didn't entirely understand why things were the way they were. His weekend stay had quickly turned into a month-long stay until finally it seemed to have become a permanent arrangement, at least that was the impression he couldn't help but adopt as the days wore on.

"Your mother is working through a few things," his meemaw had explained over yet another home-cooked meal, this one a hearty winter vegetable soup. "You know she hasn't really been in a good place since your daddy died."

Pete had simply nodded his head, laboring to understand all of the changes that made up his new life. He'd had to bite back tears when she'd mentioned his father, who had been killed two years before during a robbery at a convenience store; a helpless bystander who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That had been around the same time that his mother had told him that he needed to start looking out for himself more.

"She'll come back after she's gotten a job, right? That's what she said," Pete had said, studying his bowl of soup as he listlessly ate; his short legs dangling over the edge of the sofa. The Golden Girls were playing in the background as his meemaw crocheted, her thick, knobby fingers working the yarn in an effortless fashion.

"I honestly don't know, child," she'd replied, shifting a little as her afgan grew under her fingers. "I don't want to tell you something and then it turn out to be wrong. It isn't fair to you."

Pete's meemaw was a product of the Silent Generation, and as such she didn't feel the need to waste words when they weren't necessary. He'd learned over time that she would never lie to him, but that also meant she wasn't going to give him false hope. Her way was to face everything head-on without complaint and with a stoic attitude, but that didn't mean she didn't try to offer him comfort when she could, always making sure that Pete was clean and well-fed, even going so far as to redecorate the spare room so that he had a place to call his own. She wasn't the most educated woman but she had a healthy respect for learning, and she had the largest collection of books Pete had ever seen.

"It got so quiet around here after your pop pop died," she'd explained one night after reading Pete his customary bedtime story. "I'd always liked to read but it was my saving grace after he went to his reward. Now that I think of it, I used to read to your mother like this every night."

"Really?" Pete had asked, only able to dredge up a modicum of interest in the subject of his mother these days. She'd been gone for two months at this point and had only called a handful of times. Somehow she'd found herself in the Pacific Northwest, working as a waitress at a little restaurant near Puget Sound.

"Really," she'd smiled before smoothing the hair out of his eyes. She'd clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Your hair is getting so long, Petey. We need to get it cut soon; I hate seeing it hanging in your eyes like that."

"I kind of like it," he'd replied, touching his hair as well. He'd glanced at the book of Grimm's Fairy Tales. "Did we finish it?"

"Yes, I'm afraid we did," she'd said, setting the book aside. "I'm not really sure what to read you next, Petey. I have a lot of books but most of them aren't really suitable for children."

"I want to read a grown up book," he'd said, feeling defiant.

"Oh, you do, do you?" She'd asked, a touch of amusement flashing in her eyes even though she'd seemed to seriously consider his request. "Well," she'd said while tapping her chin. "I do have a collection of Poe's stories we could try. They're like fairy tales, I suppose."

Pete's meemaw couldn't have realized at the time that she was helping to usher her young grandson into the next stage of his life, introducing him to the works of the original Goth Kid. There was just something about the man's word, a darkness, a despair, that spoke to Pete's growing discontent, though he wasn't able to articulate why the stories had such a profound impact on him. It's like they opened him up to a whole new world, one that he could take seriously even if he didn't entirely understand it. Poe's tales made him feel like he had an ally of sorts, a kindred spirit, his imagery feeding Pete's imagination until it was almost unbearably full.

He'd even brought the book with him when he started at South Park Elementary in the fall, nervous and quiet as he'd sat in his new classroom among unfamiliar faces. The first few weeks had been a nightmare as everyone else fell into a rhythm, having grown up in the area or just better at making friends, while he sat in the corner of the room and stared at his book during free time or recess. Almost an entire month had passed before someone finally spoke to him for the first time without being forced, a gangling kid with curly hair and unnaturally pale skin.

"Why are you always so quiet?" The kid had asked, his heavy-lidded eyes straying over the book on Pete's desk. "Is there something wrong with you?"

Pete had gulped at this question, feeling a thread of fear rising up along with growing irritation. He'd kept his eyes trained on Poe's face as he'd tried to formulate an answer that wouldn't make him look weirder or encourage the kid to keep bothering him. He'd opened his mouth expecting to say something diplomatic but that hadn't happened.

"There's nothing wrong with me," he'd snapped, lifting his gaze so he could meet the kid's directly. "What's wrong with your stupid face?"

Instead of reacting with anger the kid had just smirked before he'd gestured to the book.

"What's that?"

"A book."

"Well, yeah, but what kind?"

Pete had clutched the book to his chest before he'd slowly pushed it closer to the boy, biting his lip as he dropped his focus once more; his desk suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. Out of his peripheral, he could see the kid flipping the book open, stopping on a page with a sketch of a man who'd been tied up, a sharp pendulum swinging above him.

"Whoa," the kid had breathed. "Cool." Turning, he'd gestured to a heavyset girl sitting off to the side, her hair a dirty blonde. "Hey, Hen, come check this out."

The girl had come over, appearing somewhat reluctant until she'd caught sight of the book as well, her eyes widening. She'd taken it into her hands while studying the page, her eyes flitting to Pete and regarding him with childish respect.

"Your parents let you read stuff like this?"

Pete had shrugged, not really understanding what the big deal was. His meemaw had told him that she had no problem with him reading her books so long as he was careful with them. She'd also told him that he was old enough to decide what he put in his mind, within reason, of course.

"My meemaw gave it to me. We read together every night."

The curly-headed kid had snorted at this, covering his mouth as he began to giggle. The girl had nudged him with her elbow, frowning.

"Hey, shut up, Michael. Give the kid a break." Looking at Pete again, she'd smiled, revealing jack-o-lantern teeth; her top two front incisors missing. "Your name's Pete, right?"

He'd nodded, trying to ignore the way the Michael kid had continued to laugh.

"Meemaw," he'd repeated, laughing louder.

Pete had narrowed his eyes, fully ready to accept teasing against himself, but no one made fun of his meemaw; no one.

"You'd better shut up," he'd said. "I mean it."

Michael had shut up then, but his face had taken on a thoughtful, calculating look. He'd taken the book from the girl before addressing Pete again.

"I'll stop if you let me borrow this."

"No way," Pete had said, reaching out and swiping the book from Michael's hands.

"Fine, then let us read it at recess," Michael had replied, crossing his skinny little arms over his No Fear t-shirt. He'd cocked a brow, waiting.

Pete had considered this while trying to downplay how excited he was to finally be included in something, even if it was just because of his book. He'd glanced at the girl, who'd appeared just as interested as Michael, and friendlier besides.

"Sure, I guess that'd be okay," Pete had conceded.

Very quickly, a routine was established with the trio, and they would meet up during every recess to read and talk. Pete soon came to realize that Michael and Henrietta weren't like the other kids who naturally gravitated to the slides and swings and sunshine. No, they'd preferred the shade of a large tree off to the side of the playground, but eventually they'd found themselves meeting behind the school where the dumpsters were; the area cut off from the fray and very quiet. They'd all seemed to start on the same page, rejecting what could be considered "normal" pastimes for kids their age, opting instead to fret and complain and discuss what they'd considered to be very serious topics; namely, how lame and stupid their peers were.

"They just don't get it," Michael had often said while gazing at their classmates with open contempt. From the start, he'd been the one that seemed the best able to express his derision, though he couldn't seem to explain why he felt the way he did; none of them could. They'd all just agreed that the world was a disappointment and they were the only ones smart enough to really see it. "Not like Poe, you guys. He totally got it, like, for real."

By the time Pete had accepted that his mother wasn't coming back anytime soon, he'd had Henrietta and Michael over to his meemaw's trailer to see his room and to peruse her book collection. When she'd happened upon them, she'd merely offered them Tang and oatmeal raisin cookies before making a suggestion about what they should read next.

"H.P. Lovecraft," she'd said, holding out the book to Pete before she'd retreated back into the living room to watch her stories. "I'm pretty sure you kids'll get a kick out of him."

The three had spent many afternoons together, reading, talking, and eventually smoking, before they'd befriended Firkle and Pete had come to accept with finality that his mother was never coming back for him. She'd deigned to call him on his 9th birthday to offer her well wishes, but on their heels was the revelation that she'd gotten remarried, and to an older, wealthy man. He'd clutched at the phone upon hearing the news, having naively believed that nothing she said could surprise him anymore; how wrong he was.

"I'd have you come live with us, honey, but I'm sure you're already all settled there," she'd hurried on, making it very clear that she didn't intend to prolong the conversation. "Aren't you?"

He'd resisted the urge to simply hang up on the cold-hearted bitch to say that, yes, he was very settled, and yes, he was very happy to be with his meemaw, which was the truth, of course, but he had a feeling his mother wouldn't have cared either way. An invitation to be reunited with her was never going to come, he'd quickly realized, but this conversation cemented the fact that the desire he'd once had to be with her again had all but disappeared.

"I'll send you some birthday money really soon," she'd promised before rushing herself off of the phone. "You can buy yourself whatever you want, huh?"

The money hadn't showed up until several weeks later, and after getting the green light from his meemaw, Pete had gone to the mall and bought red and black hair dye, suddenly wanting to change everything about himself that could possibly be traced back to his mother. They'd always shared the same hair color, and now he couldn't stand to see it reflected in the mirror. He hadn't gone into this sort of detail with his meemaw when he'd asked for her help, but she'd seemed to have an idea anyway. She'd studied the dyes held in his hands before giving him a look that seemed to be a mixture of sadness and vague disapproval.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

He'd nodded and she'd sighed heavily before rising from the couch and leading him to the bathroom. Two hours later Pete had emerged a new man, his hair and the trailer reeking of chemicals but he'd suddenly felt so much lighter. That was also the first night that his meemaw had admitted to having a lot of pain in her hands, the knuckles red and thick as she'd sat on the couch rubbing them. It seemed that the delicate act of helping with the dying process had exacerbated the arthritis in her joints, making Pete feel very guilty before he'd offered to help.

"The liniment," she'd said, pointing to the bathroom where the fan was still whirring; trying to clear out the chemical stink from the dye. "Bring it here, Petey, and I'll show you how to help old meemaw's hands. There's a dear."

He'd proceeded to rub the minty salve into her knotted fingers and her eyes had closed against the ache as he worked, eventually turning to him and smiling softly.

"What would I do without you, Petey?"

He'd been too bashful to answer so he'd merely shrugged, but a small light had been lit inside of him at her words, and suddenly being abandoned by his mother didn't hurt as much. Maybe this had all been meant to be, after all.

Over time, the old trailer had become the home Pete had always needed even if he hadn't known it. He and his meemaw learned to lean on one another, and they helped the other age with something resembling dignity; Pete battling adolescence while meemaw moved into her golden years. She'd always been a larger woman and had lived with diabetes for half her life, but now she'd developed rheumatoid arthritis and angina as well, but she dealt with everything in her quiet way. Pete had picked up the slack without complaint, helping to cook, clean, and run errands for the aging woman. In return, she'd always proven to be his biggest supporter, an attitude which extended to Pete's friends as well.

"You're staying here tonight," she'd said after Henrietta's father committed suicide and she was reeling from loss. "I'll fix up the davenport for you after I call your mother." She'd proceeded to stay up with Henrietta for most of the night as she silently cried, her head cradled in the woman's lap as she stroked her hair. She hadn't forced her to talk, had only acted as a warm force meant to prop up the devastated girl as she'd grieved.

She'd insisted that Michael sit and talk for a spell after his parents had given him a hard time about his failing grades. She'd fixed him a cup of chamomile tea as Michael had ranted about their unrealistic expectations and unrelenting need to control his future. She'd even patted his hand after he'd lapsed into a sullen silence, reminding him that everyone had the right to choose their own path. She hadn't spoken for Michael's parents because she didn't really know them, but she'd told him that she'd hoped they meant well and that it was alright to be upset with them.

"I come from a generation that valued silent, obedient children," she'd said, "but even children deserve a voice, so long as their words are respectful."

Firkle had been harder to coax out of hiding, having always been the most close-lipped of the four, especially after his uncle had come to live with his family. Pete could only speculate as to why the younger kid's eyes became more haunted as time passed after this development, but he'd had his suspicions, and they were all ugly. The telltale bruises on Firkle's arms and thighs had spoken volumes on his behalf, and when meemaw had seen them her eyes had taken on such a hurt dimension that Pete almost couldn't bear to look at her. Rather than make a fuss, she'd always made it a point to speak softly to the child; never making sudden movements in his presence. She'd treated Firkle delicately in all things, and she'd insisted that Pete and the rest do the same.

The story of Firkle's uncle had come to a neat conclusion one night when Firkle had appeared at the trailer suddenly, his expression dazed as he'd hidden his hands in the pockets of his long, black coat. Meemaw had been asleep at the time and Pete had been as quiet as possible when he'd led Firkle to his room and shut the door.

"He's gone," Firkle had said upon withdrawing his red-stained hands from his pockets, the light catching them as Pete had studied them, wide-eyed. "They'll never find him, either, and even if they do, they'll never be able to tell I did it."

Pete had been surprised into a heavy silence, never taking his focus from Firkle's trembling hands, twitching slightly every now and then; his nails caked with filth. Finally, he'd managed to look into Firkle's eyes directly, and they were just as shaky, darting all around the room and unable to settle.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"I gave him to the earth," he'd replied before standing abruptly. "Can I go wash my hands now?"

Pete had just pointed to the door, to the bathroom just across the hall. Before too long, Firkle had returned and became conspicuously silent, but Pete didn't prod him. Instead, they'd laid under the blacklights, Pete's posters glimmering dimly in the gloom, until they'd both fallen asleep. The next morning, meemaw had been delighted to see that Firkle had shown up in the night, always seeming to be more at ease when he was in her line of sight.

"You want pancakes, babe?" She'd asked, and he'd nodded, proceeding to eat three platefuls; his skinny stomach becoming noticeably distended. This had pleased her as well. She'd patted him on the head when he'd asked if he could spend another night at the trailer before giving him a look.

"This okay with your folks? Why don't you call them?"

"Oh, I did before you woke up, meemaw," Firkle had replied, having become the only one other than Pete to call her by this name. "They said it's just fine."

Pete had been disturbed because he knew that Firkle was lying, but he didn't want to make waves; remembering Firkle's hands from the night before. He'd stayed silent but he'd narrowed his eyes at his friend when meemaw's back was turned.

"What did you do?" He'd asked after they'd retreated back to his room, his back to the door as the sounds of meemaw moving about in the living room faded. "What the hell did you do, Firkle?"

"The less you know the better," Firkle had replied, curling up in Pete's comforter after removing his shirt; covering up a myriad of nasty bruises marring his arms and torso.

They never did find Firkle's uncle and he refused to talk about it after that day, but Pete soon realized this event was the precursor for what would soon become a double life he kept from his meemaw. They had their surface exchanges, but there were parts of him and his friends she couldn't know about. Not because he didn't think she deserved to know, but because it was better that she didn't.

* * *

**BUTTERS**

He hadn't really expected anything good to come from having sex with Pete of all people, but it had felt so good, and he'd needed the affection so badly. He still needed it, but he didn't know if he'd ever receive it again, especially now. Butters could hear the party going on outside of the locked closet door and he cringed into himself when Stan's voice cropped up among the fray, the sound of it filling him with an all-consuming terror. In the darkness, his wounds throbbed, and the pain brought with it the memory of the way the forest had smelled after Kenny had finished with him; moist, raw, clean.

He'd sobbed out an apology when Kenny had confronted him with the note, but it hadn't been enough. He'd tried to explain that jealousy had been the driving force behind his motivations but Kenny hadn't listened before he'd started slicing him up, his wounds parting like flower petals as the sun fell across the pond in the distance. Butters had gone slack after the first swipe of the knife, and as the blood had fallen he'd shut his eyes to remember the last time he'd been in Pete's arms.

Somehow he'd managed to convince himself that the things they'd done together in Pete's trailer were romantic in nature, but it became clear very quickly that Pete wasn't thinking of Butters when he was inside of him. After the second time he'd fucked him, Pete had rolled over onto his front and started speaking idly as evening had fallen beyond the window of his small room.

"You know who you remind me of?" He'd asked before turning his face on the pillow, his light brown eyes sleepy. "That Tweek kid. You guys look so much alike."

Butters had sat up and started to dress after being asked that question, ashamed to see the bruises scattered on his arms and sweaty belly. His father had not been happy with his latest report card, but that just meant he needed to try harder, right? He was also ashamed that it had been so easy for Pete to talk him into his bed, but he'd been so sweet at the library, asking questions about the book Butters had been reading, and then offering to walk him home. It had seemed so natural to accept Pete's invitation to come over for dinner, and before he'd known it, Butters had been pinned to the mattress in the tiny bedroom and was greedily accepting the kisses Pete rained on him.

"I guess that makes sense," Butters had replied as he nervously dressed, his asshole burning from being used at Pete's leisure during a long Saturday afternoon that was quickly fading into evening. He'd taken his time with it, the claiming of Butters virginity, but still, it hurt. The ache was almost delicious, in a perverse sense, but the burn was going to take some getting used to; the burn that wasn't just in his skin.

"I'd like to do this again, if you're up for it," Pete had continued, reaching out to stroke Butters still naked back. "How about tomorrow?"

Butters had nodded at this proposal, already anticipating being laid down on Pete's bed after a morning spent in church. He'd listen to a sermon about God's all-abiding love and then he'd violate His word in what had to be the worst way possible, if his parents were to be believed. His mouth had watered at the prospect and as he'd fallen asleep that night he'd reached between his legs to stroke himself, Pete's face in his memory as he discreetly came; stifling his moans behind his hand as he heard his parents quietly talking downstairs.

He hadn't had the heart to admit to his parents that his foray into bisexuality had been misguided, and he was firmly ensconced in his deep, abiding need for male contact. This was a truth that he hadn't been able to even admit to himself, but when Pete had taken him the third time, their bodies sweating as the heat baked the room, he'd finally been able to surrender himself to what couldn't be denied. The sermon from earlier that morning had been ringing in his ears like church bells when Pete had bent him over the bed, his face mashed into faded sheets scattered over with Transformers logos.

"Little kid sheets," Pete had laughed after they were done and he was smoking a cigarette, the fumes fading into the sunlight and drifting through the open window. "I've had them since I came to live here."

"Your meemaw is real nice," Butters had murmured while his head settled onto Pete's thin, bare chest. "My grandma ain't nice at all...I wish she was more like yours."

"Yeah, she's one of a kind," Pete had replied, beginning to sound distracted. Butters had clutched at him to bring him back, desperate for a connection that didn't just come with feverish sexual contact.

"I wanted to thank you, by the way," he'd said, his voice softening as meemaw's music had slid under the crack of the door; Glenn Miller playing on the ancient stereo in the living room. "For, you know, offering to walk me home from the library and everything."

Pete had smirked while brushing a rough hand through Butter's sex-wrecked hair. This gesture had seemed as distracted as his tone when he listlessly answered.

"Who knew that a walk home from the library could turn into a tumble in the sheets? I had no idea you'd be so easy."

Butters had frozen at these words, his ear filling up with the whooshing of Pete's steady heartbeat. He'd sat up to look directly into Pete's face, his own skin feeling like it was on fire, all the way down to his hands; a vague sense of shame having flooded him. Pete had just stared back at him, unflinching, his skin so porcelain-pale that he'd bordered on being translucent; cracks of sea-green veins threading his temples.

"What?"

"You could be Tweek's doppelganger, did you know that?" Pete had asked, taking another long pull on his cigarette.

"Why do you keep talking about him?" Butters had snapped, honestly surprised by his own rage. He hadn't allowed himself to become truly angry in a very long time, mainly because it never seemed to make a difference anyway. "Did you know he wears girl's underwear, huh? I've seen it, when he didn't think anyone was watching; I saw him changing in the locker room."

Pete's eyes had brightened at this bit of information, effectively disarming Butter's attempt to disparage his supposed lookalike.

"Is that so? What kind? I hope they were the little girl type with a bow on the front." He'd studied Butters for a moment, his still-bright eyes drifting down his body to settle on his exposed, vulnerable genitals. "You'd look good in something like that yourself."

"No, I wouldn't," Butters had blushed, lying back down to cradle his head on Pete's sharp rib cage. "Tweek's thinner than I am...and cuter."

"Oh, you're cute, don't worry about that," Pete had said before gathering Butters closer to his side, apparently overlooking the puffy softness of his body. Butters had once been slender like Tweek, but he'd developed an appetite that had been his undoing after he'd figured out that he was living a lie, unable to accept or disclose his true desires. Every bite of sugar had added a layer to his body that had shut out the world, but the insulation had padded his secret misery as well.

The next time they'd fucked Butters had worn little girl panties for Pete, to please him, soft and white with a blue ribbon on the front. Pete had slid his fingers under the waistband while kissing Butter's inner thighs, and for whatever reason Butter's mind had been flooded with memories of his childhood sleepovers with Cartman. There had been times when he'd been sure that Eric's preoccupation with him had transcended idle interest but he could never be sure, and the encounters had only reinforced his growing confusion. Then his disinterest had been confirmed when he'd started taking up with Kyle, which had honestly broken Butter's heart just a little. He'd always felt like a runner-up no matter the competition.

"See? I told you you'd look good like this," Pete had whispered while tonguing Butter's stiffening cock through the thin fabric, his fingers straying to the place that was already sore from being over-used. "I'm glad you listened to me."

Butters had merely nodded while biting his lip, trying to overlook the fact that he was falling further with every encounter, Pete's kohl-rimmed eyes burning in his thoughts when he tried to close his mind like a book at night; fighting for sleep to take him. Whenever he'd opened his legs for Pete to take him he felt like a dog begging for it but he didn't care. Finally, he was attaining the closeness that he'd always craved; needed. Thoughts of his parent's glaring disapproval always faded away when Pete was pressing him into the warm mattress that smelled of old cigarettes and Pete's scent; cheap laundry detergent, ink, and the sunshine flooding the window.

He hadn't realized he'd fallen in love with Pete until the jealousy had reared its head and filled him with a caustic, unyielding hate he could barely fathom. They'd been meeting up for weeks before he'd finally dared to ask Pete what he wanted from him, if anything.

"So, what are we exactly?" He'd asked while watching the ceiling slowly darken with evening, the ghostly sounds of cars passing on the highway across from the trailer park whispering in the still, dense air. Pete had been smoking yet another cigarette while flipping through a book of poetry. He'd also taken his time responding, letting the question hang heavy in the air, just making it become more stifling.

"What do you mean?" He'd asked, stubbing out the cigarette after using it's red tip to light yet another.

Butters had worried his hands just like he'd done as a child, and in that moment he'd felt like an eight year old again. It hadn't mattered that he was wearing a sheer nightie that came down to his knees because Pete had asked him to, he'd still felt like he'd fallen backward through time and was completely helpless.

"Well, uh, are we, like, dating or -"

Pete had scoffed before slowly shutting the book of poetry, had tossed it on the floor.

"It's just sex."

He'd sat up then, the silk of the nightie brushing his skin the way Pete's fingers had, covered in spit and full of need. His heartbeat had been so frantic in his chest that every beat had physically pained him, made him short of breath.

"W-what do you mean?"

"I have a type," Pete had replied before standing and pulling on his discarded black jeans. He hadn't even bothered to wipe Butters' fluids from his body before doing so.

"A type?"

"Yep, in guys. Girls I'm a little bit more open-minded with but I like blonde-haired guys, specifically. Like you. Like -"

"Tweek," Butters had cut him off, a strange blankness settling over him.

"Well, yeah. Besides, you were just a dare. I would've preferred Tweek but you know he's so wrapped up with that Craig asshole, and -"

Butters had stumbled to his feet then, feeling decimated; eyes blurred as he shakily tried to find his discarded clothing. He hadn't needed Pete to remind him that Tweek was loved, and not just by Craig, but by Token and Clyde. He had so many people that loved him, needed him, wanted him. If there was anything he didn't need shoved down his throat, it was this knowledge. Quick fury threaded through his misery as he hurriedly dressed, hands clumsy as he fumbled to pull his shirt over the ridiculous nightie he'd donned just to please Pete. He'd said he looked so pretty and he'd been stupid enough to believe him.

Pete had just stared at Butters for a moment before reaching over to turn on the bedside lamp, illuminating the room with sudden caustic light. Butters had searched his eyes for any indication that he was kidding, that he hadn't meant to be cruel, that it had been unintentional. There hadn't been any hint of apology but he had smirked, his eyeliner falling along his cheekbones in black streams; sweat standing up on his skin in the heat of the room.

"You aren't jealous, are you? It's not like I love him or anything, he's just an ideal."

"No, it isn't that, it's just -"

"Don't lie, babe. Just be honest with your feelings so you can do something with them." Pete had flipped his hair out of his face, and even though Butters knew on some level that it was completely ridiculous he couldn't help but want to sigh, because he knew what the strands smelled like when he'd leaned his head on Pete's shoulder.

"W-what do you mean?"

"Think about it," Pete had said, rolling his eyes.

Cowering in the warm darkness of the closet, Butters swiftly came back to himself when he heard the knob begin to rattle and then the door was being thrown wide; the memories evaporating in an instant as he came face to face with Pete. Or who he assumed was Pete, he couldn't tell with the horse mask obscuring the person's features.

"Don't you want to receive our guest?" A muffled voice asked before reaching out a hand, and Butters knew for sure that it was Pete. Trembling, he accepted it and stood, his legs partially numb from crouching for so long. He was led into the main portion of Firkle's basement, where other horses were waiting and staring him down, blank eyes pointing in a million different directions. The only person that wasn't wearing a mask was Stan, who was regarding him with a look of extreme disapproval.

"Butters," he said by way of greeting, and he lifted a shot glass before knocking it back, smacking his lips with open satisfaction. His eyes had a strange sheen when they focused on Butters again, lights from the large TV caught in them and reflecting a static image of yet another horse. "How are you feeling since having your little talk with Kenny in the forest?"

Butters whimpered before rubbing one of the gashes hiding under his shirt, the pain sharp and still so new.

"He wouldn't give me a chance to explain," he muttered, still clinging to Pete's hand and wanting to believe he'd protect him. "Why I did what I did. The notes, I mean."

"Well, I'm all ears," Stan said softly before handing off his glass to an unnamed horse, who swiftly refilled it from a bottle of Jack on a long table. "Why don't you get everything off your chest?"

Butters opened his mouth to speak but the words just wouldn't come. It was one of those situations where his reasons and his motivations were so clear in his head, but he couldn't make his stupid, thick tongue work enough to speak the words. He faltered until Pete pushed his mask back, exposing his flushed face, eyes thickly rimmed in black.

"He's a larvated homosexual. Aren't you, Butters?" Isn't that what you are?"

"I-I d-don't even know what that means," Butters admitted, wanting to tug on Pete's hand and just make a break for it, but he didn't dare.

"You weren't just writing those notes to Tweek and Kyle, kiddo. You were writing them to yourself, too. On a subconscious level."

"That isn't true!" Butters replied, though he knew Pete was speaking a weird, brutal truth. He started to cry and his next words poured out of him before he could stop them. "I wrote them because I love you! I hate hearing you talk about Tweek! I hate him and Kyle, too! I hate that they have people that love them and I don't have anyone, not even you!"

"Love is like being fucked by a knife*," a small, high-pitched voice broke in. Firkle.

"Jesus, that's beautiful," Henrietta commented, pushing her mask back as well. "Nice one, Firk. That's totally what love feels like." She shot a glance at Pete when she said this, eyes narrowed.

"That's enough, you fucking weirdos," Stan barked, advancing on Butters who recoiled, but Pete wouldn't allow him to move away. "Keep your bullshit to yourselves, okay? Don't fucking get us involved because you have nothing better to do."

"We aren't the ones you should be worried about," Michael spoke up, he didn't remove his mask; but his voice was unmistakable. "There's an illness running through this town and you know it, everyone knows it. The real danger is out there, not in here."

"What the hell are you even talking about?" Stan asked, raking a hand through his hair before accepting yet another shot. Butters just clung to Pete's hand as he watched Stan's Adam's apple bob up and down as he drank, a vague sense of dread threading through him upon hearing Michael's words; about everything. "And why the fuck did you guys have Butters locked in a closet, anyway?"

"As a surprise for you," a girl spoke from the couch, face obscured though silver streams of hair rested on her shoulders. She was all curled up next to a scrawny, long-limbed boy whose head was tipped back, dead horse's eyes staring at the red-flocked ceiling. "After your boy fucked him up in the woods we figured you'd want to talk to him."

"I'm more interested in talking to Pete," Stan snapped, glancing in Pete's direction. "Considering he's the one that got Butters to write the notes in the first place."

"Bullshit," Pete interjected, ripping his mask off and throwing it aside. "I told Butters to come to terms with his shit, not go after your little boyfriends."

"So, you're telling me you had nothing to do with it?"

"Nah, but I do think it's pretty funny, honestly," Pete laughed before hooking an arm around Butter's shoulders and tugging him close. He looked down at him with his strange, frenzied eyes. "You've got a real mean streak don't you?"

Butters looked down at the floor, unable to find a response for that.

"What do you mean you love me, by the way?" Pete continued, jostling him slightly. "You don't love me, kid. Don't confuse fucking with loving, it'll bite you on the ass every time." He thought a moment, before he snickered. "But that's what you're into, isn't it?"

Butters opened his mouth to speak but only air came out, watery and stuttered, but then Stan was answering his phone, his voice calm until -

"Shit, are you fucking kidding me? You can't be serious. Where is he?"

There was dead, weighted silence until he lowered the phone and looked around the room with dazed, blank eyes.

"What? What is it?" Henrietta asked, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling.

Stan slipped his phone into his pocket before glancing at her, his eyes still registering nothing.

"It's Tweek...he's been attacked. Raped. He can barely talk, he's so fucked up. Kyle found him in the woods near Stark's Pond."

That awful silence descended once more as his words lingered in the air like smoke, and Butters found himself cowering against Pete's side even though he seemed so far away, so remote.

"See?" Michael asked, his voice as blank as Stan's eyes. "I told you this town was one giant mental illness. I wasn't kidding."

"Fine," Stan bit out, his hands clenching into fists. "But that doesn't change anything, does it?"

"I think I can help," Firkle spoke up. "I know how to make people disappear, if they deserve to. Trust me."

"Why should I?" Stan asked, looking around at the assemblage, the room full of smoke, dead eyes, and tension. "Why should I trust any of you crazy fuckers?"

"Just because we like chaos doesn't mean we don't have a sense of honor," Michael said while shrugging. "Did Tweek say who did it?"

"Yeah," Stan replied, rubbing a hand across his face, revealing a cold, hardened expression when he took it away. "And he's going to pay. We're all going to make him pay."

"Sounds like fun," Pete commented before brushing a rough kiss across Butter's sweaty forehead. "You in?" He asked, looking down at him again. "You can make up for your recent fuck-up, hmm?"

"I-I don't know if I can do this," Butters stammered, clinging to him desperately. "If m-my f-father finds out w-what I've been doing, he'll -"

"Whatever, he likes getting it up the ass just as much as you do," Stan cut him off, an edge like a knife blade in his words that slashed through Butter's defenses. "We've all seen him coming out of the White Swallow. He's in no place to judge you."

"Besides, if he lays a finger on you we can just get rid of him, too," Pete said nonchalantly, glancing at Firkle. "Right, Firk?"

Firkle nodded before beginning to giggle behind his horse mask, sounding positively gleeful as the sound bounced around the room. Butters cringed.

"Why are you so cruel?" He whispered. "You're all so cruel."

"Life makes you cruel, hon," Pete replied, easily. "Not to mention this town. It's fucked all the way down to its heart. It needs to be burned to the ground."

"No, it isn't the town, It's the people," Stan replied, starting to move toward the door. "You guys are no better, honestly. You don't care about Tweek or Kyle. You just want to fuck with people because you can, because it amuses you."

"There's no denying that," Michael agreed, nodding his head. "But that also means we aren't afraid to take risks, which means we're worthwhile allies, right?"

"I'll talk to the other guys about it," Stan said, ripping the door open and flooding the room with the scent of rainfall. "Right now I need to go see Tweek." He slammed out of the room before giving Butters one last hateful look.

The room was plunged into silence again before Mike Makowski finally removed his mask and looked around, all smiles.

"This is seriously the best 'getting out of the psych ward' party I've ever had. You guys are the best."

Michael plucked up a random pill from the bowl on the table and popped it into his mouth, swallowing it dry after pushing his mask back. He smiled as well.

"Yeah, now the fun can really begin," he replied.

* * *

*Isaac Watts  
*Flowers of Flesh and Blood - Nicole Dollanganger


	6. Chapter 6

**Short chapter this go around, you guys...sorry for that. I hope you enjoy it either way, and I apologize that we're lapsing into one of the darker parts of the story. i had to hold off on writing this bc i have to start getting myself into the proper headspace for what's to come. there isn't any violence in this chapter though i'm trying to delve more into tweek's backstory...the next chapter will be harder to stomach, i think, but i'm hoping to handle the subject matter w/ respect. (that's always been my goal) Anyway, ENJOY 3 and feedback is always appreciated**

**My baby wears all black**  
**Says he's gonna make a hearse**  
**Out of this Cadillac**  
**He says I'm gonna put him in**  
**An early grave with all the**  
**Trouble that I make him  
My baby says he loves me but I know**  
**He don't care if he kills us both**

**My baby wears all black**  
**Says that we both die inside of**  
**Every dream he has**  
**He says he's seen us on the road**  
**The car was smoking and I was**  
**Trying to pull the teeth from**  
**His throat**

**-My Baby, Nicole Dollanganger**

* * *

**TWEEK**

The air was strange that night; heavy, oppressive. Tweek could feel it from where he was standing in his parent's coffee shop. He was behind the counter while his folks worked in the back, getting together a giant catering order that could make or break them if Mr. Tweak was to be believed. There was tension hanging in the atmosphere of the cafe along with the humidity hovering outside. In the distance, just beyond the mountains, lightning lit up the clouds floating over the horizon. The clouds themselves were dense and discolored, almost appearing soiled as evening drew closer. He couldn't help but feel like something was going to happen, and he wasn't sure that was a good thing.

Drumming his fingers on the counter, he looked around the empty room and was glad for the quiet. Closing time was less than an hour away and it had been a slow night. Very soon, Craig would be coming by to pick him up and then they could decide where the night was going to take them. Tweek would've liked to meet up with Clyde and Token, maybe have a bonfire on the banks of Stark's Pond if the weather behaved, but he didn't want to get his hopes up.

"Tweek, we're going to need you to go to the store for us," Mr. Tweak said as he hurried from the back, his apron covered with flour and his eyes frenzied. He had a piece of paper clutched in his fist that he thrust at his son, who clumsily managed to hold onto it. "We can't finish the order without those items." He jabbed at the paper. "Your mother made a mistake when she was doing inventory, and we're running short."

Tweek studied the contents of the list and saw that it was quite extensive. Biting his lip, he glanced out the window and saw the lightening picking up considerably; the clouds lit within like green ocean swells. Night was falling fast and he was afraid to go out after dark, but he didn't want to tell his father that; he'd never understand. No, such an admission would only make him angry.

"Where should I go?" He asked, taking off his apron and laying it on the counter, revealing his striped boat neck sweater and navy blue cords. He was wearing ruffled panties beneath, just to make him feel more at ease in his own skin.

"Whole Foods, you know that," his father replied, furrowing his brow. "You can take the bike, if you want."

"Honey, it's about to pour out there," Mrs. Tweak said, coming into the room; a bit of flour on her cheek as she eyed her son. She held up an umbrella. "Take this so you won't catch your death."

"That ridiculous thing," her husband sneered, looking at the article with distaste.

"So, it's pink, it'll cover him either way," Mrs. Tweak said, pressing the umbrella into Tweek's hand. "You'll be alright?"

He nodded, trying to ignore the way his father was continuing to scowl. He'd made it around the counter, the umbrella tucked under his arm, when his father spoke again, his voice laced with derision.

"Are you going to let him borrow your sweater, too?" He asked.

"Honey." Mrs. Tweak sounded tired, almost as exhausted as Tweek felt whenever his father started in on one of his tirades.

"Just go," Tweek's father said, rubbing a hand over his mouth. The overhead lights caught the grey in his hair, aging him considerably; faint wrinkles around his mouth coming to life. Mrs. Tweak appeared more girlish, but the years were etched around her eyes. "And don't screw around on the way."

Tweek chose not to take the bait, opting instead to exit the store and almost collapsing from relief when he was out in the open. The air was oppressive but it wasn't nearly as stifling as his father's quiet anger. There had been a time when they'd been on good terms, but those years were long gone. He liked to think his mother still loved him in a profound way, but she was retiring and hated arguing with her husband if she could help it; she wouldn't (or couldn't) offer him any protection. She hadn't even put up a fight when Mr. Tweak insisted that she cut her hair short.

"Women your age aren't supposed to have long hair," he'd said, twisting one of her long tresses around his finger before tugging on it. "Do something about it."

And she had, without a fuss. Tweek could remember the day she'd come home with her hair framing her face, and he'd immediately started crying because he'd always loved the way her hair fell down her back in rich waves; had loved the way she'd unbraided it and let it swirl around her shoulders when they'd sit outside and blow bubbles on summer evenings. She'd sit on a cushion in the middle of the yard with Tweek in her lap, and they'd also gather white dandelions; their puffs escaping on the winds as they'd passed through.

Tweek was walking with his head down as he slowly made his way to the Whole Foods, the tension in the air gathering with every step he took. The temperature wasn't high but it was so humid, and he could feel the sweat gathering on his forehead and on the back of his neck; slipping down between his shoulder blades. He wished he could've worn a lighter t-shirt or even a camisole, but he knew his father would never allow that; not in public, not while working at a fine, upstanding establishment like Tweak Bros Coffee.

He tried to think happy thoughts as he moved along, the pink umbrella still tucked under his arm. He thought of the summer day Craig had found him hiding in a tree...he remembered going to his home and standing in the hushed stillness of his bedroom, the way he'd been so gentle when he'd doctored the cut on his knee. Tweek knew it was foolish, but he couldn't help but feel like he fell in love with Craig that day (at least a little), and it wasn't long before Craig became like a song stuck in his head constantly. That's what love was like for Tweek: carrying someone in his head like a melody wherever he went. Over time, he'd come to think of Token and Clyde in the same way; the three of them were a refrain inside of his heart; always present.

The trip through the grocery store was quick because Tweek knew the layout well. It was common for his parents (especially his father) to send him to pick up incidentals for the shop when they ran short. He also knew that Mr. Tweak was fussy and exacting, so he only got exactly what was listed, taking caring to choose only the brands written on the paper. Mr. Tweak took great pride in making most of their baked goods by hand: bear claws, scones, cinnamon rolls; everything prepared with the finest ingredients. Tweek had actually enjoyed baking with his father when he was younger, had even shown a knack for it, but his father had stopped wanting him in the kitchen after he'd discovered certain things about his son that he considered less than savory. He'd put a distance between them that was nearly palpable, but Tweek didn't make waves about it; he took after his mother in most things, after all.

That wasn't to say that his mother was perfect, by any means; quite the contrary, after all. She'd been the driving force behind sending Tweek to a psychiatrist. She wasn't exactly thrilled about his penchant for girl's clothing, mainly because she blamed herself for the way he'd turned out.

"I wanted a daughter," she'd admitted to her son once in a moment of vulnerability. She'd had too much wine with dinner and she was more open than usual. Cheeks flushed, she'd played with Tweek's hair as they'd lounged on the couch, feeling particularly relaxed because Mr. Tweak was absent, tying up loose ends in the cafe. "And when I found out I wasn't I kind of couldn't deal with it. I projected my disappointment onto you, I think...even if I tried not to."

She'd gone so far as to explain that she'd sort of lost herself when she'd found out she couldn't have more children after Tweek. She'd suffered a series of miscarriages, each one devastating her in turn, leaving her hollowed out; disillusioned.

"You were like a dream, my only baby," she'd said, her eyes becoming steadily glassy as she'd imbibed on more and more wine. "Your father said I indulged you too much, made you soft, but how could I help myself? You were all I'd ever wanted...even if you weren't a girl."

Tweek had wanted to explain that his mother's ways had not been the factor that gave him the desire to wear girl's clothing. It had nothing to do with the way she'd wrapped him in her cardigans when it was cold outside, or the way she'd painted his toenails once because he was little and curious. No, he'd developed an affinity for feminine things because he'd liked them; he'd always liked them. They were soft and comforting, they were pretty and delicate and they made him happy. Why did there need to be a deeper meaning behind it? Wasn't it enough that he simply liked the way they looked and the way they made him feel?

Things had come to a head after Mr. Tweak had seen the shirt Tweek had bought with his birthday money; the infamous bright pink shirt that had made him the target of merciless, cruel teasing. He'd taken one look at it and demanded that his son take it off and throw it away.

"No son of mine is going to make a spectacle of himself," he'd seethed, watching as his son did as he was told; dropping the shirt into the trash with tears in his eyes. "What you do reflects on our business, our livelihood. Don't you have any respect for this family, not to mention yourself?" He'd turned to his wife then, eyes narrowed. "I know you wanted a daughter but you didn't need to fuck up the kid you were able to have."

She hadn't responded to that, and not too long afterward the visits to the doctors had started; once a week for years. He'd been put on medication for ADHD and for bipolar disorder. He'd learned to hide the clothes he preferred to wear behind closed doors; only wearing them at home and in front of people who understood. He was constantly told that he was confused and regressing, but he'd get better someday, someday. No one ever really defined when "someday" was going to be, and they certainly couldn't articulate what "getting better" entailed, but he could only figure it had to do with falling in line.

That was part of the reason he'd decided to come out along with Kyle. He'd wanted to feel like he had some control of his life because so much of it seemed to be taken from his hands. He hadn't really been prepared for the fallout, the bullying, that awful note in his locker...the looks and whispers. He'd never realized so many people would be against him...but if his own parents couldn't accept him, how could anyone else? Now he wished he could just take everything back, but he knew that was an impossibility.

"Stay dry out there," the cashier said after ringing up his purchases, everything tucked neatly into two bags. "It looks like the sky is getting ready to open up."

"Thanks," Tweek replied, smiling. He held up the umbrella. "I came prepared."

She grinned. "Have a good night."

"You, too." Turning away, he headed out into the night, thankful that the rain was holding off, though the clouds continued to roll in; lighting flickering in the strange yellow and green cast of the sky. It almost felt like the whole thing was going to crash down on his head. He had to figure that a bonfire by the pond was off the table, but maybe they could all just get together and watch a movie in Token's lavish basement. His parents were almost never home, and Clyde came and went as he pleased since his mother died; his father having emotionally checked out some time ago. Craig's parents weren't too bad, all things considered, but they could be reasonably controlling in their own right.

He was halfway back to the shop when he received a text from Kyle out of nowhere:

_Hey, did you want to hang out for a while? Stan's hanging out with the Goth kids (bizarre, I know) and I'm bored out of my mind at his house. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were okay since...well, you know._

Tweek had to smile at Kyle's concern. He'd always been the sensitive type, and they'd really started to lean on each other since they'd both come out. The comment about Stan hanging out with the Goth kids was perplexing, although he recalled Craig saying something about paying Henrietta a visit recently. He hadn't gone into detail (such was his way) but Tweek couldn't help but feel like the two instances were related somehow, though he couldn't put a finger on it; he'd been feeling more ill-at-ease than usual lately, especially since he and Kyle had received those notes. He also felt overwhelming guilt for telling Craig about Henrietta spitting on him...he hadn't wanted to make trouble for anyone, but Craig had always known how to be very convincing.

_Sorry, I can't right now. I'm helping my parents at the shop while they take care of an order. We're gonna be hanging out afterward if you wanted to join us, though. You and Stan and the others, of course._

It wasn't too long before Kyle replied:

_I assume you're talking about hanging out with Craig and Clyde and Token...and the "others" would be Cartman and Kenny, right? That could work. What are you guys planning?_

Typical bitchy Kyle, but Tweek didn't mind. Quickly, he tapped out a response:

_Well, I wanted to go to the pond but it looks like the weather's gonna turn to shit. I'll keep you posted after I talk to Craig...he's gonna be picking me up soon._

_Sounds good. Just let me know. :)_

He had to admit he hadn't expected the smiley face, but it was appreciated. In lieu of an involved response, Tweek sent back a thumbs up before tucking his phone back into his pocket. He was actually feeling pretty chipper when he noticed an unwelcome person on the sidewalk ahead; an imposing figure clad in ripped jeans and a plaid shirt, their blonde hair scraggly and in need of a wash. A cigarette dangled from their lips, the clouds of smoke floating into the dense air. Immediate apprehension plucked at Tweek's gut and he covertly tried to look around for an out, but there wasn't a detour he could take, and his parents were waiting for him. His father would raise hell if he was out for longer than necessary. Resolutely, he firmed his resolve though he was shaking on the inside, continuing on his course.

Passing by, all of his nerves were on fire and the sweat sliding down his skin wasn't just from the humidity anymore; the smell of it taking on an acrid, fearful odor. He thought he might be safe until a gruff, deep voice broke through the stillness.

"Just doing some shopping, princess?"

Nausea cropped up at the sound of that voice, his anxiety rising exponentially along with a faint thread of anger. He slowed down but he didn't stop, his hands clenching around the bags until his knuckles were bloodless.

"Yes," he replied, his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't expound on this fact; he didn't owe anyone an explanation.

"You alone?"

Now the fear was becoming so strong that he almost thought he might vomit. He tried to assume an air of indifference, not wanting to make his terror obvious; that was blood in the water for ruthless bullies like Trent Boyett.

"I'm pretty sure that's none of your business," he said, quickening his step. The shop was in sight now, its amber lights breaking through the night. Lightening cracked overhead, almost making him jump.

"Don't be like that," Trent replied, throwing his cigarette on the ground and twisting it out with his foot slowly. "I'm just trying to make conversation with you. Is that a crime?"

"No, of course not, but I really need to get back, so..." he trailed off, refusing to make eye contact as Trent came up beside him, keeping pace with his step; hands jammed in his pockets. He smelled of tobacco and a darker underlying odor: sweat and ground-in dirt, leading Tweek to assume that it'd been a while since he'd taken a proper shower. It was decidedly sinister, like the murk of a rarely-used, darkened basement.

"I'm surprised your watchdog isn't carrying your bags for you," Trent commented, bumping Tweek with his shoulder and making him stumble slightly. He righted himself, wanting to run but unable to find the strength. "It's weird to see you without Tucker hanging around...him and Donovan and Black, of course."

"I guess," Tweek muttered, moving away. Trent's stench was beginning to become unbearable and he had to swallow the urge to gag. He'd smelled the exact same odor right before being pushed down the stairs at school. Feeling desperate, he awkwardly started to trot, just wanting to escape...wondering if Trent had been responsible for the notes in his and Kyle's lockers. He knew Trent had a history of animosity with Kyle going back years, and for whatever reason he seemed to be preoccupied with Tweek too; almost to a pathological extent. He just enjoyed terrorizing creatures smaller than him and too afraid to fight back, that much was clear.

He'd only made it a few steps when he felt himself sprawling to the ground, his bags exploding and items rolling every which way: expensive vanilla extract, cream of tartar, a bag of flour that burst open and covered the sidewalk in fine white powder amongst other articles. He whimpered, knowing that his father would be furious about him wasting everything; practically setting his hard-earned money on fire. Slowly, he became aware of the fact that Trent had tripped him, and was now standing between him and the cafe, arms crossed.

"Why are you in such a hurry, huh? All I want to do is talk to you." He leaned down and took a hold of Tweek's chin, squeezing so roughly that he couldn't help but squirm. "That isn't asking for too much, is it?"

Quick tears sprang to Tweek's eyes as he tried to pull away, but Trent's rough, large fingers were like vices holding him in place. With an impassive expression, Trent yanked him closer, his breath hot against Tweek's skin; bordering on being rancid: cigarettes, old whiskey, a hint of something sweet, like an apple. It was nauseating, like smelling a corpse moldering.

"I asked you a question," he said, shaking Tweek's face. "Answer me."

All Tweek could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, trying not to frantically look around at all of the groceries rolling along the pavement and becoming lost. Another sharp crack of lightening tore through a sky that resembled the deepest part of an unexplored sea, and for a moment he almost didn't hear his phone ringing: Craig's ringtone splitting the moment just as much as the lightening.

"I know you're too smart to answer that," Trent said, dragging Tweek to his feet. "Right?"

"What do you want from me?" Tweek asked, already beginning to sob. "I need to get back to my parents...they're waiting, and if I -"

Trent responded by stomping on the bottle of vanilla with his heavy boot, and it exploded, brown juice trickling onto the sidewalk. The warm aroma rose in a cloud about them, momentarily obliterating Trent's unbearable barbaric scent.

"They can wait," he said, taking a hold of Tweek's arm and tugging him away from the safety of his parent's store. "I wouldn't worry, by the way; I'll take good care of you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Major trigger warnings for this chapter: rape, violence, homophobic language. I wanted to make this part longer but once I finished I decided I needed a minute before I moved onto the next part. The next chapter will be filled with revenge, so it'll be easier to write (I think), but this part was difficult for me. One might ask, "well, why did you write it, then?" To those hypothetical questions I'd have to reply that catharsis comes in a myriad of forms...mine just comes through writing dark fanfiction, lol. Anyway, I will say that writing backstories for more obscure characters is interesting, so there's that. Once again, please read with discretion. :) **

**PS: Hopefully, it goes without saying that I don't condone any of the actions or language used in this chapter. Not at all.**

**Hell has a name — "satan's den" **  
**got the lock on the trailer, got the tape recorder in **  
**he's gonna strap her to the bed, spread apart her legs **  
**and pull the soul out of the body that its in **  
**and when he's done he will give her to the earth **  
**a starving animal will always feed**

**\- In the Land, Nicole Dollanganger**

**The skin parted like petals on blossoming flowers**  
**We pressed the cuts together, became one and another**

**Now we're blood brothers**  
**A part of me will always live in you**  
**I'll love all your demons because**  
**Now they're my demons too**

**\- Blood Brothers, Nicole Dollanganger**

* * *

**TRENT**

Trent still enjoyed watching things burn.

It didn't really matter what it was as long as he could watch it ignite and smolder: paper, fabric, wood. If he could set a match to it, he'd burn it, gladly, and relish in the way it broke down until it became nothing but ash that eventually disappeared into nothing. He had aspirations of eventually burning down a building, but he was working his way up to that; everything in its own time.

It wasn't until he saw the dumb-looking kid with the blonde hair walking alone at night that he realized he didn't just want to burn objects. No, he wanted to set fire to people too, maybe not with actual flames, but he was smart enough to know that destruction could take a myriad of forms, all of them satisfying. The boy had a doe-eyed, animal quality about him, almost like he was meant to be small and kept in a cage; handled delicately. It was enough to make Trent clench his cigarette just a little bit tighter, all of his muscles tensing with a strange anticipation that took him off guard.

He'd almost decided to let the boy pass him by when he noticed the umbrella tucked under his arm, bright pink, practically taunting him. Before he could stop himself, not that he'd really wanted to, he was calling out to him, calling him princess...wanting to make sure he was alone. He hadn't recognized him at first, but then the realization dawned on him. This was a kept boy, almost always surrounded by his friends...but they weren't just friends, were they? Anyone with eyes could see that, not to mention the fact that he'd been stupid enough to out himself to everyone at school; him and that faggot Broflovski.

The creature hadn't been receptive, though, his demeanor and posture had suggested fear, which had only excited Trent more. He'd been swift when he'd tripped him, and when Tweek had looked up at him his large eyes had been full of slow-growing terror. Trent had almost shuddered, almost like the boy was already catching fire on the inside, even before he'd touched him. When he'd stomped on the tiny bottle and splattered its contents all over the pavement, he'd already made up his mind about what should, no, what _needed_ to be done. The boy had said something about needing to get back to his parents, that he'd be expected. Trent had ignored this, had taken him by the arm and dragged him to his feet; it was so fragile, little bird bones sliding under his grip.

He'd promised Tweek that he'd take care of him and he'd meant it...and the boy hadn't fought him when he'd started leading him toward the woods circling Stark's pond, where no one could see them; no interruptions. When Trent had looked back, he'd smirked to see the pink umbrella laying on the sidewalk, resembling a crushed flower.

* * *

To say that the years Trent spent in juvie had institutionalized him was an understatement. On some level, though he couldn't articulate it, he knew that he'd been broken down and rewired to obey the system, even though he hated it. He'd been taught to eat when told, bathe when instructed, line up when ordered, but his metamorphosis hadn't stopped there, not by a long shot.

He supposed he would never forget the first time he'd been accosted in the bathroom, by boys that were bigger and older than him. He'd been outnumbered, and though he'd fought it hadn't been enough, because they'd made sure to stack the deck in their favor. The night staff were occupied, it was late...bed checks and rounds had already taken place, and all Trent wanted to do was empty his bladder. He'd been wearing the Spongebob pajamas his mother had sent him in his monthly care package, and even though he hated them for their babyish leanings, he'd loved them, too. She'd sent them, after all, and she was an oasis in a world that didn't seem to want him. Trent was almost positive that it would break her heart if she ever realized his forced sexual initiation had taken place while he was clothed in the articles she'd sent with love...he could even imagine her kissing the little card she'd tucked into the box before closing it up. Her ghostly aroma, talcum power and rose sachets, clung to every package he'd received, and these aromas were all he needed to transport him back to his true childhood; before he'd been locked away.

He hadn't been warned that innocence was something that could be stripped away without a thought, and that it could happen before you were aware of it. As he'd been held down by the other boys and taken against his will on the white tiles that smelled of strong, industrial cleaner, something inside of him had died, but something else, something darker and almost impossible to control, had been born. Like the need to burn, it consumed him; the hatred, the rage. Somewhere in the tangle was a loathing of himself, but he only understood that part vaguely; he didn't dwell on it.

Trent's childhood had been complicated, but he supposed everyone's was, in one way or another. His parents had been high school sweethearts, a real Jack and Diane situation, but he'd always been of a mind that she was too good for him. Alona Jean Boyett had had potential at one point, if her yearbooks were to be believed. She'd won speech contests, had been on the honor roll and in the National Honor's Society, had cared about going to college. She'd cared so much that she'd worked two jobs to put herself through Mesa State. She had wanted to escape her family, her circumstances: an alcoholic father and an indifferent mother. She'd been put in foster care at one point because her mother hadn't wanted her anymore, even though her siblings had stayed at home. In short, she'd wanted to make something of herself despite the naysayers, and she did; almost.

But Jake Boyett hadn't harbored the same aspirations. He'd been a D- student with an obvious disdain for academia and authority. The only things he'd cared about in school were Alona Jean and working on his car (a 1967 red mustang) while getting blasted in the yard of his parent's dilapidated Grand Junction double wide. He'd always been a forthright man, open about everything because he had no shame, so he hadn't even batted an eyelash when he'd told Trent that he'd been conceived in the back of that car one starlit night. He and Alona Jean had gone up to the overlook on the Grand Mesa and parked, and she'd cried softly against his shoulder when she'd come; whispering words of love in Jake's ear.

"Nine months later our entire world changed," he'd added while cracking open another Coors. "You came along and your mama finally became a proper wife, stayin' home and tending to things."

Trent's father had been proud to have a son but that didn't mean he was a good father. His goal was to make a man out of his boy, and his methods were usually brutal, because according to him, life was brutal.

"Life ain't going to help you when you're drownin'," he'd said, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth as he'd led Trent into the swirling waters of Stark's Pond. "No, it's gonna throw you rocks and tell you to swim, so you need to be prepared."

He'd proceeded to teach 4 year old Trent how to doggy paddle, and just when it looked like he was starting to get the hang of it, his father had pushed his head underwater and held him there. Trent could remember the terror converging on him as his breath ran out and he'd begun to struggle, his lungs on fire as he screamed; mouth filling with water. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his father had let him up and grinned as his son sputtered and sobbed, snot and tears running down his face along with the glacial pond waters.

"Didn't expect that, huh? Well, there's your first taste of life, son. You like it?"

Mrs. Boyett had been waiting to receive her crying son when he'd run out of the water, her arms opened wide. She'd always been a slight woman and Trent couldn't help but feel like she was the prettiest mom in the world, with her dark hair and eyes, her skin tan even in the middle of the winter. Her father's side were Ute descendants, and it showed in her. She'd held him tightly and had chastised her husband for being so harsh, but that hadn't stopped him from bringing Trent up in the way he'd deemed appropriate.

He hadn't even been angry with his son when he'd discovered him setting a small pile of leaves on fire very shortly before Trent was sent to juvie the first time. He'd been annoyed that Trent had been using matches so close to their little house, a sad structure on the outskirts of South Park; beyond the train tracks and very close to the McCormicks, but he hadn't really cared that his son enjoyed playing with fire.

"Every man needs to know how to start a decent fire," he'd commented simply.

Trent hadn't really been able to focus on his father's words, though, his attention immediately drawn to the dead deer lying in the grass very close by; majestic, with an impressive set of antlers. His father had pointed to it, yet another cigarette perched in his mouth and a can of Coors in his hand, sweating in the hot weather. "You're gonna help me gut that thing."

And he had, being forced to watch while his father had severed the buck's genitalia and slit it up its middle, had endured the spectacle of the creature's innards being wrenched out and propped open with sticks so the carcass could cool. When his father had decided it was time, he'd hefted the animal's body into a nearby tree and hung it by its antlers so the blood could drain, the red stream pooling on the grass below. Trent had watched as the green bottle flies gathered for the feast, their metallic coverings sharp under the sunlight. His father had instructed him to sit until the deer had emptied out, alone, while he'd gone to get another beer. His gloved hands had been covered in rusty smears and the stench of the creature's death was all around them, but Trent hadn't argued. He'd been obedient and stayed until his father had returned, only flinching slightly when he'd tousled his hair roughly.

It wasn't too long after that incident that Trent was falsely accused of starting the fire at his daycare, and he'd been sent away. His mother had sobbed uncontrollably almost from the beginning, her soft-smelling handkerchief clutched in her hand as she'd kissed her son hard on the cheek, wiping away the moisture before she'd moved away. Mr. Boyett had been stoic, arms crossed, having never given himself the luxury of displaying his emotions in public if he could help it.

"Just don't end up like that buck, boy," he'd instructed, his light blue eyes icing up considerably. "Because this place'll drain the blood from you just as easily. You hear me?"

Trent had swallowed and nodded his head, still so young and so confused, but he'd never contradicted his father before, and he wasn't about to start then. His father's words had haunted him when he'd been assaulted in the bathroom, though, and the shame of making himself a target, for being weak, had stopped him from telling anyone what had happened. Instead, the secret of it had fed his rage and his thirst for revenge, to do to the world exactly what had been done to him. He'd been thwarted the first time he'd been let out of juvie, but he'd promised himself that he'd have his retribution in the end; the chickens always came home to roost.

He couldn't help comparing Tweek to that gutted buck as they traipsed through the darkened forest, the sky angry above them as the storm clouds built on themselves. There was a heaviness in the air that some would've considered ominous, but it made Trent feel alive with anticipation. He continued to hold the boy's arm tightly, practically feeling the way he wanted to run, and he knew that he would try before all was said and done. Good, it would just make the whole affair more amusing.

"Don't you love weather like this?" He asked suddenly, and he could see Tweek starting because they'd been walking in silence for nearly ten minutes by then. "It makes me feel froggy. What about you?"

"I don't like it," Tweek muttered, tight-lipped. "It makes me nervous."

Trent laughed as he pulled the boy deeper and deeper into the forest, where the treetops were dense overhead and blocking out the sky.

"My daddy always said there was no point in being uptight about things you can't change," he commented. "That includes the weather."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it." There was some snap in Tweek's response now, and this only gave life to Trent's excitement. There was a stirring inside of him, and he began to thump his fingers against the dirty leg of his ripped jeans.

"It doesn't matter, I guess," he said, wanting to make conversation now, inexplicably. Maybe it was because he knew he had a captive audience. "That old son of a bitch up and died a couple years ago. Lung cancer."

Tweek dared to look at him, eyes wide, and even in the murky evening Trent could see they were an unusual shade of blue: darker on the edges and fading into an almost ocean color around the irises. They seemed surprised while he fumbled a response.

"Who? Y-your father, or -"

"Yeah, you know I always thought he was too mean to die, but death doesn't give a shit about who you are. The thing is, he could've saved himself, I reckon, but he was always stubborn; refused the doctor's treatments, wouldn't even stop smoking. "He chuckled, his fingers still tapping rhythmically on his leg. "That cancer ate him full of holes, my mama said. By the end, he was so thin he would've disappeared if he turned sideways, and he couldn't even remember his name. The poison spread to his brain."

"That's terrible."

"It's life," Trent replied, shrugging. "Just another thing we can't change...the end will find all of us eventually, won't it?"

Tweek started to cry quietly then, his hand pressed against his mouth as Trent kept leading him. He stumbled but righted himself clumsily.

"What do you want from me?" He sobbed, stopping suddenly and trying to yank himself out of Trent's grip. He showed an amazing amount of strength, just not enough. "I need to get back to my parents...they needed stuff from the store for an order, they were waiting, and -"

"My parents waited for me, too," Trent cut in while squeezing Tweek's arm so hard he cried out. "They waited ten years because I was put away for something I didn't fucking do. Hell, my daddy died before I even got a chance to come home. The last time I saw him he was in a coffin; I didn't even recognize him."

"Trent, I'm sorry about that," Tweek said, gasping when Trent pulled him roughly again, continuing on their trek into the deepest part of the forest. Off in the distance, between the trees, Stark's Pond stood still as the humidity in the air reached a fever pitch. The leaves on the trees had opened up and turned, expecting rainfall; practically begging for it. "But I didn't have anything to do with what happened back then, and I'm sure that anyone who does is sorry. You were all just kids."

"That's what makes it worse, and aren't you friends with Broflovski? I see you two around school all the time, probably fucking each other, too."

"It isn't like that, we're just close because -"

"You're both fags," Trent sneered, suddenly remembering the smell of that long-ago bathroom floor. He could feel the pain of being cornered and crushed under the weight of an unwanted presence. Rage surfaced in him, caustic, and he was secretly glad that his father had died before he could ever find out the truth. Knowing him, he would've assumed Trent hadn't fought...that he'd wanted what he was forced to swallow.

"We're friends," Tweek bit, still sobbing, but it seemed more angry than devastated. "We look out for each other."

"He's not doing a very good job, is he? Him or Tucker...or the rest of you little faggots."

A huge crack of lightning split the night when Tweek finally managed to wrench his arm from Trent's hold, and he was taking flight into the forest, disappearing into the darkness as Trent followed calmly. His father had taught him to track prey, had taught him well, and he looked for the telltale signs of broken foliage and disturbed grass. Tweek was a rabbit, too fearful to cover his tracks as he attempted to escape.

"You won't get far," he murmured, slowly beginning to jog, his heavy boots kicking up the scents of moist foliage and ghostly hints of vanilla; the bottle he'd crushed before coming to mind as he pursued the object of his interest. "Come and take your medicine like a good boy."

Tweek had almost made it to a large tree when he slipped, shrieking when his ankle seemed to turn beneath him as he fell face-first into the grass. The rain had just started to fall when Trent caught up to him and held him down with one heavy boot to the back, the fat droplets breaking through the tree canopy and thudding to the earth; exploding on contact.

"Why are you crying, huh?" He asked as he began to tug Tweek's corduroys down, his mouth watering at the sight of blue ruffled panties, the boy's small bulge nearly indiscernible under the frail fabric. "A cock's a cock, isn't it? It'll feel good for you either way."

"Stop! Don't do this!" Tweek cried out, thrashing as the panties began to be torn away. "Help! Help me! Anyone!"

"You know, I didn't see the cock that fucked me for the first time," Trent mused, spreading his hands over a pale backside, small and smooth; almost like a girl's. "I was face-down, just like you, but that didn't change how much it hurt. I think not seeing it made it worse, because I didn't know what to expect. Do you think it'll be the same for you?"

Tweek just sobbed, thrashing as Trent held him down by the neck, his knee nudging his legs apart.

"Behave, and I won't hang you from the tree over there when we're done," Trent said, licking his hand and thrusting an agonizing three fingers inside of Tweek. Vivid memories of the buck came back to him, its death-stench unimaginable on a hot summer's day over a decade before; tongue lolling as the green flies fed on the pooling blood beneath it. He scissored his fingers inside of the boy, delighting in the way he wailed and jerked, the rain coming down like a million heartbeats over top of them.

He also thought of his father as he'd looked in his coffin, shrunken and so much smaller but still terrifying; rendering Trent a small boy again without having to speak a word. What would he have to say about all of this?

_He'd know that I'm not doing this because I like guys,_ Trent thought as he began to push into a body that wasn't prepared for any sort of intrusion. _He'd know this isn't sex...he'd know this is about taking what I'm owed...for all the wasted years and missed opportunities. He'd be proud of me._

Trent kept reassuring himself of this fact as he worked himself into a rhythm, yanking up Tweek's muddy sweater and watching as his bones and muscles jumped in his back with every thrust. It became a mantra in his brain as he closed his eyes and sunk into the sensation of finally having someone else at his mercy...even as he set the boy beneath him on fire and watched him go.

**TWEEK**

Tweek couldn't help but feel like the world was being destroyed around him as Trent wreaked havoc on his body. Even in the midst of his screams and the heavy grunts emanating from Trent's cruel mouth, he could hear the skies finally opening up and deluging the forest with rain. Droplets fell on him on occasion, managing to break between the leaves and descending to curve down his cheek; mixing with the tears leaking from his eyes. His hands clenched in the grasses so hard that he tore them out by their roots, his fingers scrabbling for more as the pain in his body became unimaginable.

He felt like he was on fire, burning from the inside out as Trent steadily consumed him, his movements rough and purposely brutal. Tweek had never been touched this way, and he shut his eyes against the agony unfolding in his blood like poison, his mind escaping from that forest clearing in order to protect itself. Becoming lost, he drifted, his thoughts turning backward and attempting to find salvation as the seconds turned into separate, tiny eternities.

The first thing his brain conjured up was the sound of wind chimes tinkling in the breeze outside of Token's open bedroom window. They hadn't been the wooden kind that made mellow, steady thumps, no these chimes had been made of metal that trilled and tinkled like a fork striking crystal very, very gently. They had been creating their music when the four of them, himself, Craig, Token, and Clyde, had decided to become blood brothers during a hazy summer afternoon; all of them thirteen and bored with their usual activities.

"Won't it hurt, though?" Tweek had asked as Craig had pulled out a rather large pocketknife with a green handle. He'd begun cleaning it on the hem of his shirt before rolling his eyes at Tweek's question, though he'd been smiling as well.

"Only for a second," he'd replied while he'd held up the newly-cleaned knife, appraising it from every angle. "Promise."

"Don't you want to be a real member of the group?" Token had lightly punched Tweek on the shoulder while he'd asked that question. His house had been hushed, save for the chimes, because his parents were at work - again. They'd always seemed to be at work, and they'd never had an issue with rendering their son a latchkey kid. They'd routinely lavished their son with expensive gifts and freedoms, and they seemed to feel these offerings more than took the place of their presence and affections. Token hadn't complained, though, and his room had become their headquarters over time.

"Of course I do," Tweek had replied, eyeing the knife with apprehension. "I just think -"

"You think too much," Clyde had interjected, sitting back on Token's large bed while tearing into a bag of ruffled Lays. "That's always been one of your biggest problems, man."

"Yeah, and you don't think enough," Craig had retorted, making Token snort loudly. "So, are we gonna do this or what?"

"I'm down," Token had said. He'd set his iPad aside, the tab open to the letsnotmeet subreddit.

"Me, too." Clyde had said this with a mouthful of chips while he'd glared at Craig.

"Tweek?" Craig had asked, grey eyes like mirrors; they'd showcased Tweek's look of confusion and paranoia.

He'd nodded slowly, had still felt unsure about having his arm cut open, but he'd been positive that he'd wanted to be included in Craig's group. He'd wanted to be included since Craig had found him in the tree the summer before, ever since he'd started looking out for him at school when he'd been bullied. Craig had proven to be his saving grace, especially after he'd convinced Token and Clyde to look after Tweek, too; all three of them providing a much-needed buffer from life's little cruelties. Their kindness had buoyed Tweek's spirits as he'd stumbled through the days, even when his father had gotten on his case about his quirks...even when his mother had stood idly by, having the resources to intercede but choosing not to.

They'd even accepted his liking for girl's clothing without making a huge deal of it. Token had seemed amused and Clyde had been confused, but enthused at the same time. He'd told Tweek that he thought he looked cuter than any of the girls at school while appraising Tweek in the pleated skirt he'd smuggled over to Token's house. All the while, Craig had sat by and watched Tweek with an evolving expression that had started out inscrutable but over time had become one of tenderness; a look that had made Tweek's heart beat a little faster every time he'd seen it.

Craig was wearing that expression as he'd gently sliced into Tweek's arm with the knife, had opened it just enough to allow a fine thread of blood to streak over his skin. He'd done the same with his own arm and then with Clyde and Token's, all of them having stared down at the parted flesh like they'd never seen their own blood before. Craig had spoken in a tone of hushed reverence as they'd pressed the cuts together, never showing that he'd felt any pain whatsoever.

"We'll always be a part of each other now," he'd said, having taken care to clean Tweek's wound before he'd cleaned his own. "We'll live in each other...and that means that if one of us has a problem, it's everyone else's, too. We have to have each other's backs. Got it?"

They'd all nodded as the chimes had sounded through the moment, ushered in on the summer winds that had smelled faintly of jasmine and sun-scorched grass. Tweek had glanced around the room at each of their faces respectively, having never felt so much love...his eyes had settled on Craig and lingered until he'd looked back at him, and he had smiled; the curve of his mouth lacking its usual coldness. No, that smile had been full of warmth.

Tweek sobbed as he tried to hold onto these memories as his desecration seemed to stretch on for centuries. The way Trent handled him so roughly made Tweek remember the way Craig had been so gentle the first time they'd had sex. They hadn't planned it or anything, in fact, it had seemed to happen before either of them was even aware. They'd been in Craig's room and Tweek had been stretched out on his back on Craig's bed, watching as the light in the room dimmed; the sun nearly gone beyond the horizon. He could remember the way the glow in the dark stars had begun to give off their ghostly green sheen as the shadows stole over the ceiling. He had been waiting for Craig to turn on the lamp to offset the gathering darkness but he hadn't, and before he'd known what was happening Craig was kissing him deeply, his tongue slipping into Tweek's mouth as he'd covered his body with his own.

"What are you doing?" He'd asked when Craig had pulled away, his features in shadow when he'd gazed down at Tweek. "Aren't you going to turn on a light? It's getting so dark in here."

"I don't care," Craig had replied before he'd kissed Tweek's neck tenderly. He'd taken a hold of Tweek's hands and pressed his arms to the mattress, but so softly. "You looked so cute and I wanted to kiss you...you don't mind, do you?"

"Do I ever?" Tweek had laughed, craning his head upward so he could capture Craig's lips again. They'd both been unusually hungry for one another that night; almost like something had shifted in the atmosphere between them, like something was getting ready to begin. They'd been kissing in secret for months by that point, and Clyde and Token had stolen little pecks here and there, their affection for Tweek growing as time had passed, as they'd all begun to grow into what they would eventually become.

Now the memories of Craig slipping into him with so much reluctance were being juxtaposed with Trent's unrelenting need to stake his claim. Tweek was in so much pain at this point that the memories began to mix with the present and he couldn't hold onto the feeling of how Craig had held him afterward, had kissed him on the forehead as they'd both stared at the fading green stars. He'd asked Tweek if he was okay and he'd just nodded, too breathless and happy to speak. He'd nestled closer to Craig and had felt for his heartbeat, having found it and allowed it to thump rhythmically beneath his sweating cheek. That had been the first time that Craig had told Tweek he loved him, and Tweek hadn't even minded when Craig had teased him for crying at the admission. He'd just felt so safe and adored...there in Craig's bedroom where the stars had salted the windowpanes, somehow unable to compare to the fake stars on the ceiling.

Tweek could feel himself fading out as Trent finally seemed to be finishing, his animal grunts becoming faster and more desperate as he slammed into Tweek, who had stopped fighting quite a while ago. Slowly, he opened his eyes but he could barely make out what was before him, though he was vaguely aware that the rain had stopped; the moisture left behind making the air blessedly cool as low rumbles of thunder sounded far, far away. His mouth opened with a soundless scream as Trent thrust into him one last time, and then there was a warm, shameful wetness saturating him; sliding down the backs of his thighs. He shuddered as Trent pulled out, one rough hand slapping Tweek's thigh and making him whimper like a beaten dog.

"You were better than I thought you'd be," Trent said as the sounds of him pulling up his zipper could be heard. He nudged Tweek with his foot before he knelt next to him, taking a hold of his hair so he could look into his face. "I can see why those guys are so hung up on you."

"W-why?" That's all he could manage from a mouth that could barely seem to work...his brain shutting down as his body numbed itself.

"Why not?" Trent asked, letting him go and standing. "I saw an opportunity and I took it. You should probably warn Broflovski that I'm coming for him too, so he'd better watch his back. He'll be even more fun than you, I bet, because he really deserves it. Don't you think?"

"I don't think anyone deserves this," Tweek choked, trying to drag himself up but failing. It was almost like his spirit had departed his body, rendering him an empty, immobile husk.

"Fags do, especially the ones that dress like little bitches." Trent kicked the decimated panties so they were in Tweek's line of sight. "You'll be okay getting home by yourself, right?"

Tweek refused to answer that question, just wanting Trent to leave so he could be alone...but he didn't want to be alone at the same time. He began to cry again, his eyes shutting as he prayed for sleep, for death, for anything to take him out of that horrible moment. When he opened them slowly, he was greeted with the sight of a quiet, empty clearing, Trent nowhere in sight. He'd been crying so hard that he hadn't even heard the other boy walk away, but all that mattered was that he was gone. Tweek thanked God even as he wanted to curse him, just lying there as the moments passed, listening to the sudden wind in the trees and the thunder moving further away until it disappeared entirely.

Somehow, he managed to get to his knees and then his feet, stumbling against the tree he'd wanted to climb before he'd tripped; before Trent had captured him. It was the same tree Craig had found him in so long ago, and he traced his finger over ghostly carvings in the ancient bark: C & T...C & T & C & T. Just feeling the deep cuts brought a modicum of comfort, and the tears abated as Tweek struggled to keep his feet, having removed his shoes and socks and pants, wandering toward the pond in his muddy sweater, the chill meeting his skin and making him shiver. He could feel Trent sliding out of him with every step, and it was like his coherence was streaking down his legs as well, making him feel hollowed out. He wasn't far from the clearing when he heard his phone trilling, and he turned to stare at it, lit up in the grass like a firefly. For a moment, he couldn't recall how he was supposed to respond, but eventually his mind caught up to him and he went to the phone, picking it up. Kyle's name flashed on the screen, and he slid his finger across the display. Holding the phone to his ear, he didn't speak while he stared into space.

"Hello? Tweek? Are you there?"

Kyle sounded desperate, but Tweek couldn't understand why. He still couldn't speak, though.

"Tweek, answer me, okay? Craig just called me and he sounded frantic...he said he went to pick you up at the coffee shop and you weren't there. He said your parents don't know where you are either, but they found some bags on the sidewalk outside."

He was trying to remember how the night had begun, before Trent, before everything. Tweek stared down at his hand and saw that it was shaking and covered in mud. He could hear Kyle continuing to talk, but the words were muddled together and he was having a very hard time making them out.

"Craig said he tried calling you a bunch of times until he finally gave up...he called Clyde and Token, too, but they weren't able to help. He called me as a last resort, I guess, and I told him that we talked about meeting up. Where are you now? Hello?"

Tweek looked around, at the dark trees where the fireflies were lighting up one by one, almost resembling glow in the dark stars. He smiled as he slowly began to walk in the direction of the pond. His bare feet squelched in the mud as he meandered in a trance, zombie-like as his legs trembled beneath him, nearly giving out by the time he'd made it to the bank.

"Tweek, please, just answer me," Kyle pleaded, the sound of tears in his voice now. "I just want to help...are you in trouble? Say something!"

"Pond," he finally managed to say, though his voice was faint; becoming vapor. "I'm...I'm at the pond. I think I'll go for a swim."

"W-what? Tweek, you aren't making any sense. Why are you at the pond at night...why -"

Tweek dropped the phone, his eyes trained on the water as he slowly stepped into it, the cold sharp but still not waking him up as he waded out into the stillness. Soon, the water had reached his waist and he could feel the remnants of Trent being washed away, though he didn't feel any cleaner. The currents rushed under his wrecked sweater as he kept walking, not stopping until the water was up to his chin, and he was shivering from its iciness. Craig had once said that the pond was polluted but Tweek didn't care. Wasn't he the one that was polluted now?

Looking up, Tweek could see that the clouds had rolled away to reveal a sky that had been scrubbed clean; so black that it was like it had been deluged in heavy India ink. The stars were bright knife points breaking the darkness, so white that they appeared sterile; brand-new. Taking a deep breath, he lay back and began to float, his hair wafting around his head as the waters attempted to revive him. For a moment, his mind woke up and he almost found himself back in Craig's bedroom, listening to his steady heartbeat as they watched the stars fading away on the ceiling; wrapped in his arms and becoming lost to him, there in the soft darkness.


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey, you guys! I had a little bit more fun writing this chapter so hopefully it's easier to get through than the last one. I'm still trying to flesh out the character's backstories and motivations, so that makes the process a little slower-going, especially w/ such a big cast of characters. I keep asking myself, "why can't you just write light, happy things?" and honestly, I don't have an answer for that. Maybe it's not even a question that needs to be asked. Anyway, I'm rambling, but I hope everyone enjoys!**

**baby, you have to pay in this way or another**  
**in this life or the next**  
**for as long as we've known each other**  
**you've been playing this game with death**

**one day you will be tried**  
**on the execution line**  
**he'll strap you in & you will fry**  
**like fireworks on the 4th of July**

**-Executioner, Nicole Dollanganger**

* * *

**KYLE**

He'd been sleeping fitfully in Stan's bed before the call from Craig came in, dreaming of strange things. He'd been in a field full of pink flowers, his hands clasped together before him, and as the ringing had decimated the wind and rustling of the grasses around him, he'd parted his palms; delicate petals escaping and swirling into the blue sky. Kyle had watched them disappear into nothing until he'd finally opened his eyes, disoriented for a moment before he turned his head on the pillow to see his phone lighting up on the bedside table; Craig's name flashed on the display.

"That's bizarre," he murmured, sitting up and rubbing his left eye while reaching for the phone. He picked it up and answered, surprised that Craig of all people was calling him at such a random time. It's not like they weren't friends, in some manner of the word, but they weren't the sort of friends that called each other just out of thin air. Instant apprehension sprang up in his mind, realizing on some innate level that something had to be wrong.

"Tweek," Craig said as soon as Kyle said hello, not bothering with a greeting. His voice was monotone, but there was an underlying tension that caught Kyle's attention immediately. "Have you seen him? Have you talked to him?"

Kyle was still in the process of waking up, though his mind was coming back to itself with surprising swiftness. He clutched the phone, his eyes darting around the room, taking note of the lengthening shadows and the storm clouds darkening the sky outside; tinted a strange green and threaded through with violet. The air felt dead and far too heavy. Quickly, he ran through the events of earlier, before he'd fallen asleep clutching Stan's pillow, breathing in his scent and letting it calm him.

"Yes," he said slowly, trying to remember. "I mean, I didn't talk to him, I texted him."

He could hear Craig's exasperated breath on the other end of the line before he spoke again, becoming noticeably impatient.

"Well, what'd he say?"

"He said you were going to be picking him up from the cafe soon. We talked about hanging out, but he wanted to talk to you about it first."

"Did he say anything else? When did you talk to him? How long ago?"

"I-I don't know," Kyle stammered, glancing at Stan's little digital clock on the bedside; red numbers flashing in the blue darkness filling up the room. Craig made him nervous at the best of times, though he'd never admit it out loud, but right now he was really making him anxious. "Maybe an hour or so ago? I can't really remember."

There was quiet and then another long breath, but this one didn't sound exasperated. No, this one sounded desperate, almost wavery.

"Look, I've called Clyde and Token and they don't know where he is, and neither do his shithead parents. They said they sent him to the store and that was like two hours ago." He paused, clearly trying to collect his thoughts. "There were shopping bags all over the pavement, not far from the cafe, along with -" he stopped again, and now Kyle really could hear the hitch in Craig's voice. It caused a pang deep in his gut, where the most fearful things lived, the worries that kept him up late at night once in a while. "An umbrella. His mom's stupid fucking pink umbrella."

"He seemed fine when we spoke," Kyle replied, feeling helpless now. Craig very seldom gave into hysterics, and though an outsider might hear him and assume all was well, Kyle knew better. Craig was scared.

And angry. Just this realization was enough to make Kyle uneasy. There was a stillness about Craig that could be very disconcerting at the best of times, but when he was angry, he bordered on becoming terrifying. Stan could be the same way, Kyle had noticed, along with Kenny and Cartman. They all seemed to be tightly-controlled powder kegs.

"Fine, so you don't know where he is either," Craig said, his voice curt. "That's great...but you promise he seemed okay when you guys were texting? Don't lie just to make me feel better, because if you are -"

"No, I wouldn't do that," Kyle cut in, his hand clenching on the phone and in the bed covers. The blankets had Stan's scent wrapped up in them: cologne, cigarettes, mint from the gum he liked to chew. They also smelled of sex, a thought that made Kyle blush unexpectedly. God, he wished Stan could be there with him more than ever. "I'll try to call him too, okay? Maybe he was just upset about something and went for a walk...sometimes he just likes to be by himself."

"Yeah, but he always picks up when I call, and that doesn't explain the groceries being all over the sidewalk," Craig snapped back. He sighed. "Just...call him, okay? And if you hear from him let me know right away. Can you do that?"

"Of course I can," Kyle said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. Craig had a habit of treating him like he was incompetent, which always rubbed him the wrong way. "I'll call him as soon as we hang up."

"You do that." All at once, the line went dead and Kyle was left staring at his phone screen.

"Always a pleasure," he muttered into the quiet while scrolling through his texts and checking the times on the messages he and Tweek had exchanged. He frowned when he saw their conversation had occurred over an hour and a half ago. Quickly, he called Tweek, waiting anxiously as the phone rang and rang. Not wanting to be still, that pervasive sense of dread growing in his belly, he rose and located his clothes: his jeans and his old Raging Pussies t-shirt, along with his crumpled boxers.

Eventually, the call went to voicemail and he was listening to Tweek's voice, and as dramatic as it was, he almost felt like he was listening to his ghost speaking:

_"Hi, you've reached Tweek -ah! I'm not available right now, but if you leave a message I'll try to get back to you as soon as I can!"_

He sighed and pressed a hand to his forehead while he left a message, standing naked in the middle of Stan's untidy bedroom. He'd meant to pick up a little while Stan was away but he just hadn't been able to pluck up the energy.

"Hey, Tweek, it's Kyle. I'm just wondering where you are...and so is Craig and the rest of the guys. We're actually pretty worried. Call me when you get this, okay? Or text, whatever you want. Bye."

Settling the phone on the bed, he called Tweek again, but he put it on speaker so he could start getting dressed. The ringing was unbelievably loud as he pulled on his jeans and t-shirt. By the time he'd gotten around to finding his socks, the call had gone to voicemail once more. Frustrated, he cut it off and dialed again, keeping it on speaker as he finished up; the call going to voicemail for the third time by the time he'd put his sneakers on.

"Okay, this seriously doesn't feel right," he said as he stared at the phone, the harmless device suddenly seeming so malevolent. "I'll wait five minutes and then call again."

Having a plan brought him momentary comfort, but it didn't last long, and by the time he'd tied his shoes and fixed his sleep-mashed hair he was practically jumping on his phone. For a moment, he was hopeful that a call or text had come in and he just hadn't heard it, but when he saw that he didn't have any notifications his heart sunk again. He considered calling Stan but decided against it, not wanting to bother him if it turned out he was overreacting. Maybe Tweek really _had_ gone for a walk...maybe he'd just needed some time...maybe -

Kyle stopped this train of thought, remembering the notes, remembering the way Tweek had talked about never feeling safe. Fear was growing in him, slowly making his heartbeat rise, and he took a long breath before dialing again, praying that this would be the one that took, and Tweek would answer and explain that he was perfectly fine, that time had gotten away from him.

"Sorry I made you worry!" He'd say in his shaky voice that still hadn't really changed, not like the rest of the guys...it still had a squeaky, frail quality. A boy's voice. "Did you still want to hang out?"

Kyle almost let out a yell when the ringing finally stopped and his ear was flooded with silence, and he leaned forward, beginning to shake as he spoke into the quiet:

"Hello? Tweek? Are you there?"

More silence, though he was sure he could hear light breaths; slightly raspy. His hysteria rose at the tiny sounds.

"Tweek, answer me, okay? Craig just called me and he sounded frantic...he said he went to pick you up at the coffee shop and you weren't there. He said your parents don't know where you are either, but they found some bags on the sidewalk outside."

Now he thought he could hear the chirping of insects in the background, but that was all. His eyes began to burn as he felt his composure breaking down.

"Craig said he tried calling you a bunch of times until he finally gave up...he called Clyde and Token, too, but they weren't able to help. He called me as a last resort, I guess, and I told him that we talked about meeting up. Where are you now? Hello?"

The tears were building and he couldn't keep them out of his words when he spoke again, his voice cracking.

"Tweek, please, just answer me. I just want to help...are you in trouble? Say something!"

Finally, finally, Tweek spoke, but Kyle almost couldn't recognize his voice. He sounded like a child in a trance.

"Pond. I'm...I'm at the pond. I think I'll go for a swim."

He couldn't even wrap his head around what he was hearing. He was sure his brain, overwhelmed with worry, was playing tricks on him.

"W-what? Tweek, you aren't making any sense. Why are you at the pond at night...why weren't you answering your phone? What's going on?!"

Then there was a loud thud and the undeniable sound of water swirling, and he knew that Tweek was telling the truth; he wasn't just fucking around. It didn't explain why he was at the pond and why he'd sounded so strange, but at least Kyle had somewhere to start. Frantically, he bolted out of Stan's room while calling Craig, jumping the last four stairs in his haste. Randy Marsh was asleep (or passed out) in his recliner in front of a muted TV, a beer in his hand and Stan's mom nowhere to be seen; but that was nothing new.

He was already out of the house by the time Craig answered, and Kyle was breathless as he told him what he knew, his heart in his throat as he headed toward Stark's Pond; feet splashing through puddles from the rain that had just gotten done falling.

* * *

Kyle had always wanted to associate Stark's Pond with only good things, some of them small, the others so big that they were defining moments in his life. As he raced for the woods, he couldn't help but think of all the firsts he'd had at the pond: learning to swim with Kenny and Stan during a cookout years ago (Cartman hadn't been present of course; having not learned to swim until they were older and in the community pool, the water filled with first grader piss), spending evenings on the banks when they were a little bit older, lighting bonfires and discussing their futures like they had any idea what they were talking about, and finally, when he was fourteen, getting his first real kiss from Stan.

He had to admit that as much as he loved Kenny and Cartman (a thought that still struck him as surreal and utterly bizarre, even now), Stan had always held a special, untouchable place in his heart. In fact, he liked to think that one of its chambers was reserved just for him, and every beat only reinforced what Kyle felt for him. They'd always stood together in the face of chaos, of childhood ending and adolescence unfolding; crazy parents and certain destruction descending on them time after time. They'd thwarted aliens and monsters and terrorists...they'd survived, and at the end of it they'd always had each other to turn to. Often times, it was in Stan's little twin bed, where they'd lay with limbs intertwined, even before they'd figured out they liked each other more deeply than super best friends...the way they'd cuddled had been second nature, and they didn't really talk about it the next morning. It just was.

But then everything had changed after they'd all confessed to each other, and the shift had been profound. The looks between the four of them took on new significance, especially the ones between Kyle and Stan, and while they'd taken on a different intensity, there was a growing shyness as well; almost like they didn't know how to act around each other anymore. For a while, they were awkward, not really allowing for physical contact, and the nights spent intertwined disappeared, and Kyle longed for them. The absence of that intimacy, though he hadn't realized that's what it was at the time, left him feeling hollow, rendering him weirdly listless. It was bizarre, they'd all admitted to liking each other, but it seemed to created distance between them instead of drawing them closer together.

The water had been so cold that day, almost like it was nothing but melted snow run-off, even though it was late spring and summer was just getting ready to begin. Kyle could remember shivering as he swam toward the center of the pond, waves choppy as the wind blew through his hair. On the shore, Kenny and Cartman were listening to Daft Punk and drinking the booze Stan had stolen from his dad, while Stan had been wading close to shore, their gazes meeting on occasion before quickly diverging. Kyle had felt a weird aggression coursing through him at the distance between them, physical and otherwise, and he'd stubbornly refused to join the group, wanting to be alone and not alone at the same time.

It hadn't been until his teeth were chattering and his nails were turning blue that Stan had finally paddled out to him, his strokes easy and smooth as the water between them lessened, and then he was there; tan skin glowing under the currents along with his red swim trunks, and he'd just looked so grown up, so handsome. Kyle had bit his lip to see the muscles working under that tan skin, and just knowing he was so close but still so inaccessible was enough to make the water feel that much colder.

"You should get out and warm up for a while," Stan had said, treading water as the sun struck his hair. It gleamed until a cloud deluged the light, and the blue threads in the darkness were stolen away. "Your lips are, like, blue. Aren't you freezing?"

"What's it matter to you?" Kyle had said, lifting his nose and swimming away, feeling awkward in comparison to Stan's easy athleticism. He was the football player, the sports' star...what was Kyle? Captain of the mathletes and president of the council council, respectively. It was like they were acting out a ridiculous John Hughes movie.

It hadn't been too difficult for Stan to overtake Kyle, and before he could respond, he felt strong arms sliding around his cold belly, and Stan was holding him to his chest. The crazy thing was that Stan didn't feel cold, not at all, it was almost like sitting under the sun had allowed him to absorb its warmth into his skin, and now he had the power to carry it around; to share it.

"Why are you acting this way, dude? It's like you don't want to have anything to do with us...me, especially."

"You're one to talk," Kyle had muttered, trying to struggle away even as his entire body started waking up again. It was almost like it was telling him _'this is where you need to be and you know it, so just accept it.' _

"What does that even mean?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, even though everyone refuses to acknowledge anything that's going on. We all basically told each other that we...god, that we fucking like, or even love, each other, and now we're all scattered and weird and shy. We aren't talking about anything and I miss it so much...and I miss..." he trailed off, turning his face away.

"What do you miss?" Stan's voice had been so kind when he'd asked, and it immediately made Kyle want to cry against his warm chest; against the heartbeat thumping beneath the impossibly tan skin. "Come on, Kyle, it's me. There's never been something that was truly important that we couldn't talk about, and you know it."

"Then why is this so hard? Everything was supposed to fall into place because we were being honest...I thought that was all that mattered, just admitting what we wanted."

"And what do you want, Kyle?" Stan had held him tighter, the currents wafting around them suddenly comforting like bathwater. Kyle could only look into Stan's honest blue eyes and remember them as the eyes he'd been looking into for years, and for any reason he could find or need...understanding, compassion, acceptance...and at that moment, what he'd wanted to see the most was there, and it had terrified him.

"Love," he'd replied, hiding his face in Stan's chest and almost beginning to cry, the telltale burn building in his eyes. He'd managed to hold them back. "I just want to love you, and I want you to love me...and I don't want us to be afraid of feeling that way. If anything, I want it to make all of us stronger...so strong that we can overcome anything that happens in this piece of shit town."

"You already have that," Stan had replied softly. He'd buried his face in the curve of Kyle's shoulder, making his cheeks flush; he could only hope the color obliterated his ridiculous freckles. "This was just a huge change for everyone, you know, especially for us." He'd pulled away, his expression unsure. "Right? Isn't that how you feel too?"

"Is that how you want me to feel?" Kyle had asked, becoming bold and pushing his scrawny body closer to Stan's, nearly yelping when he felt a hard bulge brushing his thigh. Stan had groaned and pulled him close again, but this time he'd taken a hold of Kyle's face, cradling it in his hands like something delicately exquisite, and soon the flavor of the pond water was being laid across Kyle's mouth along with Stan's lips. Hints of Stan threaded through too, of course, mint gum, a vague taste of beer, and something that couldn't be described because it was just him.

Kyle had sighed into the contact, had given up the little power play he'd been attempting, and his fingers had slid through Stan's sun-drenched hair with the blue highlights as they'd closed the chasm between them, and it was almost like it had never existed. The kisses had been furious, hungry, bordering on violence, and by the end they'd been breathless and holding onto each other much like they'd used to do in Stan's twin bed.

"Tonight," Stan had whispered in Kyle's ear, "I'll leave the window open and you can climb up the tree next to my room...I'll wait for you. What do you think?"

"Why don't I just come in the front door...it's not like your parents even expect me to knock at this point."

"I know you too well," Stan had replied while he'd nipped at Kyle's bottom lip. "You like the idea of sneaking out in the dark and climbing through my window. Admit it."

"Just what kind of person do you think I am, huh?" Kyle had scoffed, though he hadn't been opposed to accepting more of Stan's sweet, moist kisses...both of them clumsy and awkward with their tongues, but it was like they were both coming back to life as they'd drifted through green pond waters; blue skies above them.

That night, Kyle had laid in bed while he'd nursed a pulsing sunburn and lips, the gravity of what had occurred at the pond arresting him until sleep had been an impossibility. He'd humored Stan about coming to him that night, even by the end of the day spent in the sun...even after they'd crawled out of the water and rejoined Cartman and Kenny. The four of them had built a fire on the shore and had watched as the stars came out, the snow on the summits of the faraway mountains catching fire, and he and Stan had met each other's eyes on occasion, but everything had felt so different; so unbearably new.

His mother had chastised him for staying out after the streetlights had come on, but that hadn't been anything new. Kyle had noticed that his already strict mother had become even more stringent as he'd gotten older, as the expectations for Kyle had increased and become more precise. She'd made it very clear what she'd expected of her son, and she'd had no problem reminding him:

"You can't be this irresponsible if you're going to be a doctor," she'd liked to say, especially after he'd been out too long with his friends. "Your friends don't care about your future, not like your father and I, so don't let them distract you."

That's how she'd come to view the other three: a distraction and detriment to her son's glowing future. She'd had a soft spot for Stan in the past, but it had lessened over time. Now she'd started painting all of them with the same brush - branding them with the worst title a parent could come up with regarding their children's friends:

_Bad influences._

Kyle hadn't cared, of course. It wasn't like his mother actually knew anything about Stan, Cartman, and Kenny...not anything that mattered, anyway. She was barely a passing thought in his mind when he'd finally decided to bite the bullet and sneak out of his room at 1 am, his heart pounding in his chest as he'd crept down the stairs and put his shoes on. He'd been surprised by Ike coming out of the kitchen but his brother hadn't given him grief as he'd stood there chewing on a sandwich, a wry expression on his face.

"Where are you going?"

"Stan's," Kyle had muttered. "And you better not tell mom, or I swear to God -"

"Do you really think I'm going to tell that old harpy anything? Christ, what kind of brother do you think I am?" Ike had developed something of an attitude over the years has he'd become more cognizant of his staggering intelligence. As such, he'd butted heads with their mother more than once - she loved that he was a genius but hated that it made him harder to control.

"Sorry, I just -"

"Want to go see your boyfriend. I get it. Go, I won't say anything."

Kyle had blushed in the darkness, annoyed and secretly relieved that, on some level, his brother got him, even if they'd never really had a conversation about his preferences.

"He isn't my boyfriend, asshole."

"Right, keep telling yourself that," he'd replied with a shrug before climbing the stairs, his sandwich half-eaten already.

Kyle had just rolled his eyes while secretly being thankful for having a reasonably cool little brother (even though he'd never tell him that), and before he'd known it he was out of the house and in the cool night air, resplendent with jasmine as he'd walked the familiar path he'd taken a million times. Before too long, he'd found himself next to the tree beside Stan's window, and he'd seen that he'd been true to his word: the window was wide open, the curtains wafting in the breeze. He'd looked around and bitten his lip before he'd started his ascent, and he'd felt unbearably ridiculous by the time he'd made it to the branch right outside of Stan's room, and he was looking into the darkness, expecting a sleeping Stan; expecting nothing.

"Dude, you actually came," Stan's voice had stolen out of the shadows before he'd come to the window and leaned out, dressed in an old Mossimo t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. "I'm so happy."

"Me, too. Now help me inside before I end up killing myself."

"Oh, right. Here."

Once he'd gotten inside, Kyle had found himself standing awkwardly in the middle of Stan's room as he'd rubbed his chilled arms, having come over in just his pajamas: a frail t-shirt and sweat pants. He'd looked around and had felt like a stranger in a strange land before Stan had come up behind him and hugged him close, his lips settling on the back of Kyle's neck.

"I've missed having you here at night," he'd whispered, his breath so warm while making Kyle's toes curl inside of his socks with pleasure. "I've just missed you."

"Same," Kyle had breathed, closing his eyes and leaning back. Sudden apprehension had plucked at him as he'd felt stirrings deep inside of himself; physical manifestations that thrilled him but had also terrified him. Everything had still seemed so new. "I'm not really ready for anything crazy, though. Okay?"

Stan had laughed against the back of Kyle's neck, ruffling the wispy curls on his nape.

"Anything crazy? What do you mean?"

"You know," Kyle had said as he'd pouted slightly. He knew Stan had to realize what he'd meant; he wasn't that dense. "Don't make me say it out loud."

"I didn't expect anything beyond this," Stan had replied, had continued to kiss him before he'd taken Kyle's hand and led him to the bed. Soon, they were intertwined and it was like nothing had changed, and yet Kyle had known that nothing could be the same. They'd kissed softly until they'd both become drowsy, almost like they'd been clocks winding down at the same time.

"God, I needed this," Stan had whispered against Kyle's ear as his breaths had become deeper, longer. He'd chuckled softly before he'd yawned. "Maybe I should keep my window open every night."

"I think that'd be a good idea," Kyle had replied as he'd snuggled closer, drowsiness pulling him down, down, and it was almost like they'd been back in the waters of Stark's Pond. "A very good idea, actually."

These memories were obliterated as soon as Kyle came closer to the pond, his sneakers kicking up clots of mud as he ran. He was just glad that the rain had been brief, a violent late-spring storm, and while the humidity had abated it still hung in the air along with a faint, strange chill. The first thing he found that made his breath catch in his throat were a pair of ripped, blue underwear, girl's panties, and he began feeling nauseous as he nudged them with his shoe. Their whole group knew about Tweek's preference for feminine clothing, but Kyle would've been greatly disturbed by this discovery even if it turned out they didn't belong to his friend.

Continuing on, his nausea intensified when he found a pair of blue corduroys crumpled in the grass, and as he kept walking, his nerves like pinpricks in his skin, he found what had to be Tweek's shoes and socks tossed haphazardly near the treeline one would have to pass through before making it to the pond. He took deep breaths in and out, trying to prepare himself for whatever he was about to see and broke through the trees, the pond stretching out before him like a glass tabletop; the white stars resting in the water, the only disturbance in the stillness a small, lone figure at its center.

"Tweek," Kyle murmured, rushing down to the bank and ignoring the way his shoes sank into the muck. From what he could see, Tweek was lying on his back and staring up at the sky, his pale profile barely visible as he bobbed, arms outstretched.

"Tweek!" He yelled, not wanting to think about the clothing he'd found littered in the forest; not wanting to consider the implications. He felt helpless in the face of such a strange, sudden situation, and he hated that he was alone because he just wasn't sure what to do. For a moment, his eyes lingered on the patch of water where Stan had kissed him for the first time, and it hurt his heart to see it...to see Tweek floating alone in a place where all of them used to play.

Footsteps suddenly came from behind him, and Kyle didn't realize he'd been crying until he brushed his face as he turned to see Craig approaching. His eyes were wild, his clothes in disarray as he crashed through the trees.

"I saw his clothes," he gasped, coming to a stop beside Kyle as he tried to catch his breath. Standing, he brushed past Kyle, practically knocking him over as he looked out into the water. "Tweek!"

Without hesitation, he ran into the water without bothering to kick off his shoes, quickly swimming out to the pond's center and taking Tweek into his arms. On the shore, Kyle could hear Tweek crying and Craig speaking, but he couldn't make out what was being said. Holding a hand to his mouth, he stepped back as Craig helped him out of the water, Tweek appearing dazed as he walked slowly toward the shore, propped up like he might fall, his sweater pulled down over one shoulder and his legs bare; tinged blue and white by the moon.

"W-what happened?" Kyle asked, terrified at the looks on both of their faces: the blankness in Tweek's, and the helplessness on Craig's. He went over to Tweek, seeing that he was trembling terribly as he finally collapsed on the grass, Craig kneeling beside him as he took him into his arms.

"He won't talk," Craig snapped, cupping Tweek's cheek and brushing his drenched bangs from his forehead. "Baby, tell me what happened. Please, just talk to me so I can help."

Kyle slowly reached out to him, wanting to offer comfort.

"Don't touch him," Craig said, his voice like a dagger. "Not until he's ready."

"Oh, right. Sorry," Kyle replied, withdrawing. He wrapped his arms around himself, watching as Craig tried to soothe a practically comatose Tweek, who just continued to stare off into space, blue eyes drooping slightly as tears leaked out of them. They stayed like that for a few minutes, the night winds whistling softly through the trees and kicking up tiny waves in the pond's surface. The whole world seemed to be waiting before more voices could be heard breaking through the forest, and suddenly Clyde and Token had found them, looking just as frazzled as Craig. They immediately went to the pair and knelt beside them, and Craig didn't say a word, only moved so they could all wrap their arms around the silent boy.

"Will he say anything?" Token asked, stroking a hand through Tweek's hair.

Craig just shook his head and hid his face in Tweek's neck, and Kyle couldn't remember ever seeing him so tender. Somehow, it made the situation that much worse, seeing this breakdown in Craig's facade.

Clyde didn't ask any questions, opting instead to simply wrap his arms around Tweek from behind and rest his cheek against his shoulder, his eyes shut. The minutes passed in silence and Kyle couldn't help but feel like he was witnessing something he wasn't meant to see, sitting apart from the cluster of boys holding tightly to one another. Finally, Tweek lifted his face and caught Kyle's gaze, his eyes widening like he hadn't noticed his presence up until that point. Sudden fear broke through his dazed expression, and he began to speak softly.

"He's going to hurt you next. He told me."

Kyle glanced at Craig at the sound of those haunting words, though he could scarcely fathom what they meant. Either way, terror began rising in him and he couldn't answer, but Craig spoke up first anyway.

"Who, Tweek? Who are you talking about? Why's he going to hurt Kyle?" He paused, fury erupting in his expression. "Why'd he hurt you?"

Tweek shook his head before he hid his face in his hands, his shoulders beginning to shake as sobs emanated from between his fingers.

"I-I don't know. He talked about his father dying and being sent away for something he didn't do, and...none of it made sense, not really." He took his hands away, his eyes shut tightly as he struggled to speak. "He said we were fags, me and Kyle, then he, he -"

He hugged himself and buried his face in his knees, beginning to howl.

"It hurts!" He screamed. "It hurts so bad! And I couldn't stop it, and it was all because my fucking parents sent me out to get their fucking groceries!"

Tweek was like a wounded animal as he ranted about the pain. Kyle wanted to cover his ears but he couldn't, he had a feeling Tweek needed them to hear this.

"Tweek, Tweek, just calm down for a second, okay? Just tell us who did this and we'll take care of it! Kyle needs to know who to look out for, right?" Craig asked, taking the boy by the shoulders and looking into his face, trying to reason with him.

"Calm down, right," Tweek snapped back, showing rage that just wasn't in line with his character. It was like he was turning into a different person as they watched. "I'll calm down even though it feels like my insides are on fire, like I've been fucking turned inside out." Scraping a hand across his eyes, he looked at Kyle, his expression fierce. It made Kyle's heart flip-flop in his chest.

"It was Trent Boyett," he said, his voice cracking as the syllables tripped off his tongue like rocks. "And he isn't going to stop with me, Kyle. He pretty much promised me that."

**CRAIG**

It had taken all of his self control not to kill Trent Boyett the night he'd found Tweek floating in Stark's Pond. He had practically shaken with the desire to slit Trent's throat, to beat him until he was unrecognizable, but Craig had refrained; not because he didn't want to see Trent dead, but because he wanted to have a plan in place when his death inevitably occurred. They'd all agreed on this point, he and Clyde and Token, even though they'd all thirsted for blood, but they had to be methodical, didn't they? It wouldn't do to ring a bell that couldn't be unrung, not until they were completely prepared.

Thoughts of Tweek were heavy in Craig's mind as he looked at the assemblage of boys sitting around the table a few days later. Once again, they were all gathered together under the muted lighting of Cartman's basement, but the atmosphere was even more grim this time. They were all angry, almost unspeakably so, but the rage was feeding their resolve; lighting individual fires in each of them. News of Treek's encounter with Trent had spread like wildfire, though they'd managed to keep the incident strictly within the group, which was all a part of the plan.

"What do you mean you're not taking him to the hospital?" Kyle had asked Craig like he was losing his mind. "He needs to see a doctor! Trent could've seriously hurt him!"

"First of all, he doesn't want to go, and I'm not forcing him to do anything," Craig had replied, holding Tweek tightly as they'd all walked through the forest. Clyde had been dispatched to gather up Tweek's clothes and shoes. "And secondly, if we want to get revenge on this fucker, we can't go around spreading around what happened."

Kyle had blanched at this statement, glancing at Tweek like he'd expected him to say something, but he'd stayed silent.

"What do you mean, revenge? Shouldn't we let the police handle this?"

"The police won't do shit, Kyle," Token had scoffed, hanging back a little and looking over his shoulder for Clyde on occasion. "What are they going to do? Send him back to juvie? Like that really worked the last two times."

"But they might try him as an adult, considering the nature of the crime and his history -"

"No police," Craig had snapped. "End of story. What, do you want to put Tweek's business on blast, huh? Would you want the whole town to know about this if it had happened to you?"

"You're acting like Tweek should be ashamed," Kyle had replied, a caustic edge cropping up in his tone that had only reinforced Craig's growing anger. He'd always had a tendency to butt heads with Kyle, probably because he'd always wanted to question everything; always wanted to invade other people's business. "He didn't do anything wrong, Craig, and he shouldn't have to hide. Trent should be exposed for the piece of shit he is."

"Here, hold him," Craig had said to Token, who'd quickly come over and gently wrapped an arm around Tweek. Slowly, Craig had turned and advanced on Kyle, had made him retreat; gotten right in his face. "I don't think Tweek should be ashamed about anything, Kyle, but I also want to see Trent get exactly what he has coming to him. The police won't do what needs to be done, but we will. If you say one word about what happened to anyone, so help me God, I'll -"

"What's going on here?" Stan's voice had crept through the darkness as they'd finally started to break from the trees; Clyde having caught up to them clutching Tweek's articles. Impassively, he'd glanced at Craig, an eyebrow raised. "Craig?"

"Nothing," Craig had muttered, going back to Tweek. "We were just talking. Right, Kyle?"

Kyle had looked at Stan before he'd run to him, to his wide-open arms.

"I just think that Tweek needs to go to the hospital, Stan. Don't you agree? They don't even want to call the police!"

Stan had locked eyes with Craig before he'd nodded lightly, had spoken while he'd held Kyle close.

"I'm sure they have a good reason for what they're doing. Let's just let it go, okay? This isn't our decision."

Kyle had pulled away, had stared at Stan like he'd suddenly become a stranger.

"You can't be serious. Have you all lost your minds?"

"Kyle, leave it alone." He'd begun drawing him away, had thrown a look of pity at Tweek, who'd kept his eyes locked on the ground. "Tweek, I'm so sorry."

"I'm taking him home with me," Craig had replied, his tone beginning to soften. "I'll take care of him."

And he had, to the best of his capability. Thankfully, it had been pretty late when they'd made it back to Craig's house, and he'd snuck him up the stairs and into the bathroom without his parents discovering them. He'd carefully stripped the muddy, ruined sweater off of Tweek after he'd gotten his permission and in the cold lighting of the bathroom, he'd seen firsthand the destruction Trent had visited upon him: bruises blooming on his thighs, backside, and arms...some in the shape of fingers. The water hadn't washed away all of the blood so there were faint remnants of red falling down Tweek's legs. He'd shivered as he'd sat on the toilet, not looking up as Craig had started the shower and had kept readjusting the temperature until it could be considered perfect.

"Take all the time you need," he'd said as he'd helped Tweek stand shaking and step into the tub, where he'd heavily sat, had drawn his knees to his chest as the water had pelted him. "You can wear one of my t-shirts to bed or I can borrow something from Tricia, if you want."

"Tricia," he'd managed to whisper while he'd hidden his face. "That's fine."

He'd fitfully fallen asleep in Craig's arms that night while dressed in a faded Hello Kitty nightie, and Craig was pretty sure that that was an image that was going to be burned into his psyche for the rest of his life: the simple, horrible memory of Tweek crying out in the dark as the ridiculous cartoon cat had been splashed across his chest; staring at the ceiling with dead eyes.

"How's Tweek doing?" Kenny suddenly broke into Craig's thoughts, pulling him from memories he'd prefer to forget anyway. Not that that was going to happen. "Kyle said he only responds to his texts every once in a while."

"He doesn't want to talk to anyone," Craig admitted, tapping his fingers on the table. Faded crayon stains paraded across the Formica, a byproduct of their super hero days. "Not that I can blame him."

"Kyle is pretty much destroyed over all of this," Stan said quietly, looking down at his hands. "He blames himself, because of the stupid shit we pulled in daycare."

"Tell him he's wasting his time," Craig replied, annoyed and weirdly touched at Kyle's overwhelming empathy. How did he even function being so sensitive? "What's done is done. Now we need to act."

"Well, this fucker clearly needs to die," Cartman spoke up, looking around at the other boys like he was speaking an irrefutable fact, akin to the sun being a star or the sky being blue. "Right?"

They'd all glanced at each other before they'd nodded slowly.

"He's gonna try and go after Kyle next," Kenny said, popping his knuckles. "I mean, we won't let that happen, but the fact that he'd even make a threat like that..." he trailed off, his usually bright eyes becoming muted.

"No, he needs to be taken out," Clyde said, sitting very close to Token. They'd always been close, very similar to the way Craig was close to Tweek. They'd bonded over their indifferent parents, and Craig knew for a fact that Clyde often spent the night at Token's house; not that they got a lot of sleep when they shared the same bed. "But how are we gonna do it? I'm not really interested in going to prison, you guys."

"Well, that goes without saying, Clyde," Craig replied, rolling his eyes. He glanced at Stan. "I'm sure you've already told everyone about your meeting with those Goth twats."

"Yeah, they're harmless, up to a point," Stan said, sitting back. "Butters is fucking around with Pete and got jealous, so he put those notes in Tweek and Kyle's lockers."

"So, they're useless."

"Not necessarily." Stan stretched his arms above his head, shivering slightly as his back popped; loud in the ensuing silence. "I think we can use them."

"How do you figure?" Token asked, an incredulous expression on his face.

Stan thought a moment, his expression pensive.

"That Firkle kid," he started, "he's weird, but in a different way. I'm pretty sure he's killed before."

"Yeah, like that's anything special," Cartman interjected, laughing. "It's not like it's hard to do."

"This is different, fat ass," Stan argued, giving him a withering look. "You took an active role in contributing to the deaths of other people, you never got your hands dirty yourself. And you weren't discreet about your actions at all, might I add." He waited for Cartman to reply but he didn't, flipping him the bird instead. "This kid told me he knows how to make people disappear."

"That's exactly what we want," Craig said, his mind lighting up with excitement. "Did he say how he does it?"

"He didn't elaborate, but for whatever reason, I believed him," Stan replied, shrugging. "He said he'd help us, too."

"Good, this is perfect," Kenny chirped, sitting forward; hands clenched on the table. "Did he say who he's killed before?"

"Dude, I have no idea, it's not like we sat down and had a full conversation about this...he just mentioned it in passing."

Kenny pouted for a moment before opening his mouth again; Craig cut him off, becoming impatient. Of course Kenny would be preoccupied with the gritty details; him and his insatiable blood-lust. He was like a goddamn dog with a bone.

"All that aside, I want you to talk to him," he said, catching Stan's eye. "You seem to have a certain rapport with those morons, so tell him what we want; who the target is. Can you take care of that for me?"

"Yes, Craig," Stan replied, rolling his eyes. "I'm pretty sure that's within my scope of capability."

"Good, and I'm sure I don't need to tell you that all of this needs to be off the record." He looked around at the boys, catching their eyes in turn. "No texting about this, got it? We can't leave a single detail to chance once that Boyett fucker is taken care of. I don't even want you guys to talk about this in public places, you never know who's listening. There's a reason we didn't take Tweek to the hospital or report this to the police. Hell, even his fuckhead parents don't know what happened, and I want it to stay that way."

They all nodded in agreement, the only sound Mrs. Cartman as she cleared her throat somewhere upstairs.

**IKE**

"Can you please explain to me why you had to drag me out in the middle of the night?" Ike asked while fiddling with his coffee cup. He didn't even like coffee, he usually just ordered it because it seemed like a mark of sophistication; never mind that it tasted like ass as a general rule. He glanced at Firkle, who was nursing his own cup of coffee. He was sitting in the booth in his usual odd way: knees tucked to his chest while he hunched over. It would seem he'd never adapt to sitting like a normal person, but Ike had gotten used to his quirks over time. Well, for the most part, anyway.

"I'm doing research," Firkle replied, his large eyes scanning the restaurant and seeming to settle on a dark-haired woman as she bustled about; their waitress, as a matter of fact. "And I need your help. Just like last time."

A vague thread of apprehension cropped up in Ike's gut at these words, but he didn't let it show on his face. Somehow, he knew exactly what Firkle was talking about, because there had really been only one instance in their friendship that Firkle had asked him for anything. For anything really important, at any rate. Ike could remember almost every detail about that night, but he didn't regret a thing. The motherfucker had gotten exactly what he'd had coming, and if Firkle was asking him what he thought he was asking, the person in question probably deserved whatever they had coming, too.

As far as Ike could guess, he was the only person that knew about Firkle's past with his uncle, and his subsequent fate. Firkle had made it seem like he hadn't even trusted the other Goth kids with this information, either because he was ashamed or he just didn't want a lot of people to know. After all, a secret's power was diluted the more people knew about it. That was just common sense. Suddenly, he wanted to ask if Firkle ever visited that secret place in the woods where the pulverized bones had been laid to rest, but he didn't. Nothing good could come from dredging up the past at this point, at least not _that_ part of their past.

"Kyle's been acting really weird lately," he said instead, wanting to redirect the conversation. "He barely comes out of his room, and he seems scared all the time. He won't even talk to me about it, and usually I can't shut him up."

"There's a reason for that, but I'm not allowed to tell," Firkle replied, perking up when the dark-haired waitress stopped by their table. She was pretty with large deep brown eyes, and somehow she managed to make the Village Inn uniform look less hideous; it was probably her smile, which seemed genuine.

"Can I get you boys anything else?" She asked, holding up a coffee pot. Ike's eyes slid to her name tag, which said "Alona Jean" in black letters, a little Garfield sticker in the right-hand corner. She gave them a motherly look of concern. "Aren't you two out a little late?"

"We're mature for our age," Firkle replied, grinning impishly. He pushed his coffee cup forward. "May I have some more, please?"

"Well, of course you can," she said, the motherly look becoming decidedly indulgent as she refilled his cup. She looked at Ike, eyebrows raised. "How about you, sunshine?"

Ike nearly grimaced at the cutesy name, knowing it didn't fit his temperament at all, but he merely shook his head.

"I think I'm good, but thanks." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Firkle staring openly at the waitress, a hungry expression on his face.

"Well, okay. Just let me know if you need anything, okay? The peach pie is pretty tasty today."

"Oh, I'll have some of that," Firkle said, bobbing up and down with excitement.

"With ice cream?" She asked, winking.

"Please," he smiled, but it almost made Ike shudder, because he'd seen it before, and not during a moment that had been pleasant in any sense of the word.

"Coming right up, sugar," she said, turning away and heading back toward the kitchen, skirting around the long counter with stools running its length.

"Cut the crap, Firk," Ike said, becoming annoyed that his friend was withholding information from him and asking for help at the same time. "Tell me what you know about Kyle or I won't help you."

"You're lucky you're a genius," Firkle said, picking up his cup and taking a tiny sip; grimacing as he clearly burned his lips. "Otherwise I'd tell you to mind your own fucking business."

"I wouldn't say I'm particularly lucky," Ike argued, cocking a brow. "You don't know the strain I'm under, and besides, it's not like there's anyone else in South Park I can discuss String Theory with."

"My heart bleeds for you." All at once, Firkle sat up like an excited puppy expecting a treat, staring at a point over Ike's right shoulder. Ike turned to see a mangy-looking kid slouching into the restaurant, a bag in his hand as he meandered over to the counter. He had unkempt blonde hair and was wearing torn jeans and a plaid shirt; the sleeves ripped off and revealing tattoos on his biceps.

"Never forget," Ike read, trying to decipher the small writing from so far away. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord." He rolled his eyes. "Well, that isn't trashy at all."

"Oh, he's trash, alright," Firkle said, almost devouring the newcomer with his gaze at this point. "He's also the reason your brother is acting like a skittish animal."

"What do you mean?" Ike asked, his tone becoming sharp as all of his defensive instincts kicked into overdrive. Kyle had always been overly sensitive, vulnerable, and he wasn't about to let anyone fuck with him; especially after he'd decided to come out of the closet. He hated people who took advantage of those too weak or unwilling to defend themselves, which was why he'd agreed to help Firkle so long ago. "Tell me."

"Hold on." Firkle held up a hand as he continued to watch the kid like a hungry cat stalking an unsuspecting canary. Ike watched as well, frustrated that he was out of the loop. He was used to being the smartest person in the room, so when he didn't have all the information he desired it drove him up the wall. All of a sudden, their waitress came out of the kitchen holding a bowl, her eyes lighting up when she noticed the boy waiting at the counter.

"Honey," she gushed, setting the bowl down before taking the bag the boy offered her, clearly delighted. She kissed him on the cheek before smoothing his tattered bangs from his forehead. "Thank you so much. I don't think I could eat this food for dinner another night."

"It's cool," he replied, shrugging but smiling slightly. He looked down at his shitkickers, almost like he was bashful. "You gotta eat, right? When are you getting off?"

"Oh, not for another few hours," she replied, straightening the collar on his ratty shirt. "So, you just go on home, okay? Be careful, and lock the doors when you get in. You never know what kind of crazy people are wandering around out there."

"If only she knew how right she was," Firkle whispered, his words making Ike feel oddly cold. "You know, she's probably the only one who will miss him." He slid his eyes to Ike's without turning his head, their color a strange hazel under the oppressive fluorescents. "You wanna know what he did?"

"Yeah, otherwise I'm not helping you. I already told you that."

"Well then, tuck in, my fine friend," Firkle said, moving his cup out of the way as their waitress came back, setting the bowl of pie and ice cream in front of him. She delicately placed a napkin and spoon next to the bowl.

"I'm sorry I took so long," she said, tucking her hands into the pockets of her apron. She looked at the boy as he left the restaurant, a soft expression on her face. "My boy was kind enough to bring me something to eat, so I got a little distracted."

"No worries," Firkle chirped, picking up his spoon and digging into the pie. "That was really nice of him."

"Yeah, he's a good kid," she agreed, catching Ike's eye before glancing out the front windows. The boy was leaning against the building and smoking a cigarette, the winds rustling his hair and scattering the smoke. "Well, let me know if you need anything else."

"Will do," Firkle said through a mouthful of ice cream. Once she was out of earshot, he locked gazes with Ike once more. "It's a shame, don't you think? She seems really nice."

Ike shrugged, his focus straying to the boy again.

"That depends. What kind of monster did she have a hand in raising?"

"You were never one for small talk," Firkle sighed, laying his spoon aside. "But, fine. I can get to the gory details, if you'd like."

"I would."

With that, Firkle launched into a story that honestly turned Ike's stomach, and he could suddenly understand why his brother had been carrying that haunted look around in his eyes for the past week. As he listened, his anger and disgust rose like poisonous tides in his gut, and his hands clenched into fists under the table. By the time Firkle was done, he'd all but decided that Trent needed to go the way of Firkle's uncle; a rabid dog that needed to be laid to rest. In fact, he was beginning to feel a manic excitement at the idea, and he could vividly recall the forest clearing where the bones screamed under the earth; forgotten and lost in the sands of time. He wasn't even remotely worried about being caught, either.

After all, a murderer couldn't be accused of a crime if the body was never found, right?


End file.
